


The Least Difficult of Men

by isozyme



Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, And Steve jizzed in his pants, Angst and porn with a happy ending, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Caning, Canon-Typical Everything, Complicated Consent, Discussion of sexual assault, Flogging, Friends flogging friends is normal right?, Homophobic Slurs, Ignoring Tony’s brain cancer 4eva, Impact Play, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Kink Shaming, Light D/s Dynamics, Light ecoterrorism, M/M, Marking, Masochism, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, One very gross injury, Original villain character do not steal, Sadism, Scene Gone Wrong, Self harming behavior, Self-destructive everyone, Sexy gymnastics, Suicidal Ideation, Suspension, Trauma response and dissociation, Vaguely Ults 3, Very very bad BDSM etiquette, bastinado, canon-compliant-ish, discussion of abusive relationships, intercrural, pain play, poorly negotiated kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 46,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24045040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isozyme/pseuds/isozyme
Summary: It isn’t until Tony watches Steve lean into the punch that he thinksoh, this is going to be a problem.Steve’s taking hits on purpose in the field, so Tony suggests a safer option. It's simple: Tony smacks Steve around, Steve gets the pain fix he’s looking for, everyone leaves happy. Things do not stay simple.The one with repressed masochist Steve and sadist Tony and everyone getting off on pain a whole bunch.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 167
Kudos: 505





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to: Sineala, BlossomsintheMist, Nigmuff, Synteis, i., and Kiyaar for cheering me on and acting as sounding boards while I tried to come up with more things that could be sexy. Hopelesse, as usual, made this fic better from top to bottom and is my #1 best beta forever, and also googled for me what sound a Blackberry makes when you get a text message.
> 
> This fic is about 30k of filthy porn with 15k of emotions and plot squeezed in wherever it fit. I’ve half-assedly set it around Ults 3 in 2006-ish, but the approach I took to canonical/historical accuracy was largely ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. For example, Tony’s cancer isn’t a thing because I had enough going on and didn’t want to deal with it. It would have taken up space that could be used for more smut.
> 
> **After some thought I’ve decided to tag this CNTW: expanded content warnings can be found in the end notes.** The fic touches on some gnarly stuff in complicated, hard-to-categorize ways, including consent — please read the tags and/or the notes if you’re concerned. As always, expect the canon-typical Ults warnings (no cannibalism though).
> 
> Fic is complete; I'll be posting a new chapter every day or so! (Tags and warnings cover the entire fic.)

It isn’t until Tony watches Steve lean into the punch that he thinks _oh, this is going to be a problem._ Tony’s curled up in bed, nursing a headache and a nightcap, scrubbing through illicitly obtained security footage, and Steve is onscreen getting the tar beaten out of him. 

Tony’s only nominally in charge of the Ultimates. He foots the bills and puts anybody who asks up in his nice, big house, but beyond the paychecks and the technical backup, Tony pretty much lets everyone do what they want. If Steve wants to go to China and provoke their knockoff, non-horny Hulk, that’s fine with Tony. 

He had _thought_ Steve was taking hits because the Chinese scientists were good at their jobs. He’d been focusing on The Abomination, mentally calculating muscle twitch speeds and wondering what their secret sauce was to make it move so damn fast. Now he rewinds the video to the point where Steve and the monster slam through the wall and into the hallway, and pays attention to Steve. 

There — Steve leaves an opening for The Abomination to grab him by the ankle. Without missing a beat, the big puce-colored fucker snags Steve’s leg and whips his body like a rag doll against a bunch of lockers. Tony doesn’t have audio, but Steve’s mouth opens as all the breath is knocked out of him, and Tony can tell he’s leaning into the pain.

Tony knows that look intimately. But he didn’t expect to see it on Steve. 

Steve catches a vicious elbow in the jaw and his whole body shakes with what Tony might have mistaken for agony or rage before, but now thinks is relief. 

There’s getting hurt because it’s part of the job, and then there’s this.

After about ten minutes of punishment, Steve decides he’s done and stops fucking around. With killer’s grace, he vaults onto the thing’s back, grabs it by the chin and forehead, and snaps its neck. The Abomination goes down with a look of slack surprise on its face. Steve nudges it with the toe of his boot, checking that it’s properly dead, then jogs off down the hallway as if he didn’t just fuck his body up seven ways to Sunday. 

Tony pulls video of other fights Steve’s gone off to pick alone. It doesn’t take Tony long to conclude that this is a pattern. Steve’s been seeking out chances to get beaten bloody. It can’t have been hard for him to hide, not with how fast he heals and how many injuries are just a normal part of the hero business. 

Generally, Tony doesn’t give a fuck about other people’s unhealthy coping mechanisms. Unfortunately, what Steve’s doing is a good way to get killed. 

Tony wonders what Steve would say if Tony offered to lend him a hand with that in a controlled environment.

He indulges himself and re-plays a clip of Steve fighting that he tagged for later analysis. A faceless grunt kicks Steve in the knee with a steel-toed boot, and Steve goes halfway down, genuflecting with one fist pressed against the concrete floor. Then the grunt pistol-whips him, brutal and awful. Steve’s head turns with the blow; caught perfectly in frame is Steve’s expression, beatific.

It takes Tony real effort not to be jealous of Goon Number Seventeen. _He_ wants to hurt Steve like that. He needs that expression to be for _him._

* * *

Tony’s of the opinion that one should try everything in life at least once, preferably twice in case the experience ages well.

Propositioning Steve would certainly be an experience.

It’s incredible what a man can get away with proposing, if he asks for it bluntly enough. Tony can take more liberties than the average Joe, because he’s carefully built up a reputation of being ridiculous. Tony Stark is a poof, a provocateur, a poser. He uses his money to keep people from laughing at him openly while he knows they talk shit in private. People only act like they take him seriously, and that’s wonderful. The pretending keeps them busy. Politeness demands a certain amount of feigning ignorance, and if they’re occupied with not noticing his unacceptable qualities, they’re not looking for anything else. Tony loves not to be noticed until he chooses to be.

Tony’s pretty certain he’s convinced Steve he’s a silly, non-threatening kind of man. Steve can punch through one-inch steel plate _without_ armor; Tony’s not a danger. There’s no need for Steve to get defensive. 

Defensive men are the ones most likely to punch a queer like Tony in the mouth.

Clint shows up later in the week with intel on a sleeper cell of mutant separatists in Oregon. During Clint’s debrief, Tony watches Steve’s shoulders bunch up. He asks a few short-tempered questions about coordinates, transparently planning to make a solo mission out of it.

That solo mission’s definitely going to end with Steve’s handsome face busted.

Unless Tony intervenes, of course. As the meeting wraps up and everyone stands to leave, Tony clips Steve’s coffee cup with a deliberately clumsy elbow. Steve grabs it before it can fully topple, but a healthy amount sloshes onto the table. Steve makes an unhappy sound at the mess, and casts about for napkins.

Clint and the twins fuck off, uninterested in helping. Jan ducks out with a quick apology, fleeing an awkward exes conversation, leaving Tony alone with Steve. 

Tony whips a handkerchief out of his pocket and offers it to Steve. True to form, Steve grunts in thanks and gets to work mopping up the coffee Tony made him spill. 

Tony taps at his PDA, checking his email, biding his time. 

Steve finishes wiping the table, grabs his briefing packet, and heads for the door, Tony’s handkerchief still balled up in his hand. 

Perfect. 

“Captain,” Tony calls, adding an edge of sharpness just to see how Steve will react. It’s better than he even hoped — Steve’s head whips around and Tony gets his whole attention. It’s a slight to call a superior officer by rank alone. Steve should be rankling, doing the adorable thing where he scowls and thinks nobody can tell he’s mad. Instead he’s focused on Tony, snapped to attention and waiting for what’s next. 

Fuck, the man is attractive. He’s not for Tony, not romantically — Tony likes a little subtlety in his relationships and Rogers is about as subtle as a brick to the head — but he absolutely makes Tony’s mouth water.

Besides, subtle hasn’t worked out so well for Tony recently. Natasha ended with the nose of a pistol pushed into Tony’s temple and a hole in Jarvis’s head. 

“I’ll be having my hankie back,” Tony says. 

Steve looks at the offending scrap of fabric, then at Tony. His eyebrows go up. “I was going to put it through the laundry first,” he says, utterly guileless. 

It’s like the man is begging to be taken apart.

Tony holds out his hand imperiously, silently demanding that Steve walk back around the table to hand it to him. Steve does, and Tony thrills. A better man wouldn’t enjoy this game when Steve doesn’t know they’re playing, but Tony’s not a good man, and hasn’t tried to be one for a long time.

Steve offers the handkerchief back to Tony, the delicate thing incongruous between his blunt fingers. Tony takes him by the wrist instead, and pulls.

Steve’s not expecting it. If Steve resisted even a little bit, he’d be immovable, but instead he stumbles another step closer. Tony tightens his grip on Steve’s wrist, digging his thumb into the vulnerable underside, drinking in Steve’s reaction.

Tony draws Steve close enough that he doesn’t have to raise his voice above a whisper when he says, “I know why you’re planning on going to Oregon alone, sweetheart.”

Steve goes very still. Tony can feel his pulse under his thumb. It takes Steve several heartbeats to respond. 

“There’s no reason for the whole team to go on a mission I can complete myself,” Steve says. 

Tony _tsk_ s at the lie. “If you want someone to hurt you, baby, you only have to ask.”

Steve snorts like he’s trying to laugh Tony off. He sounds like a nervous horse. “I’m sure lots of criminals would like to take a swing at me — I’m not planning to just stand there and take it. That would be — “

The thought of kneeling in front of someone and letting them whip him until he bleeds passes transparently across Steve’s face and he stutters to a stop. 

Tony strengthens his grip on Steve’s wrist until it’s steely. _Don’t shake me off,_ Tony demands silently. 

“I don’t know what you’re suggesting,” Steve insists, tendons flexing under Tony’s palm as he curls his hand into a fist. Steve doesn’t pull away, though, which means Tony has him. Tony hadn’t expected to get this far. It had been a fun thought experiment, a stunt to satisfy his need to grab every tiger by the tail. But now it’s a real possibility, and Tony has to bottle up a surge of want. All of Steve’s steely bulk, quivering in anticipation of Tony’s next blow — the image fills Tony with atavistic desire.

“Pain makes you feel alive, Captain,” Tony whispers. “Doesn’t it? Pain _sings_ to you, and you don’t know why, but it gets under your skin and makes the world go away, until all you are is a body on fire.”

Tony scrapes his thumbnail, hard, over the delicate skin on the underside of Steve’s wrist, digging deep enough to leave a welt. Steve jerks and finally pulls himself free.

“That’s ridiculous,” Steve says, but his eyes flick to the place where Tony’s marked him, and he’s breathing hard for a super-soldier.

“I could make you suffer so _well,_ ” Tony promises lowly. “Better than some hack henchman who barely knows how to throw a punch. Just say the word, Steve. You know where to find me.”

With that, Tony plucks his handkerchief from Steve’s nerveless fingers and sashays out of the conference room, Steve’s gaze prickling on the back of his neck.

* * *

Tony takes care to stash a few choice items in this office, workshop, and the Iron Man hangar bay. Being prepared is the first step in keeping the upper hand, and he’s not certain where Steve might come to him.

A baseline human Tony can capably take apart with his hands and whatever’s nearby, but Steve is made of tougher stuff. Tony believes in always having the right tool for the job within arm’s reach. There’s nothing more frustrating than reaching for a drill bit and discovering that he only has three eighths or a quarter when he needs five sixteenths.

Then he waits.

Steve comes by his office twice before the end of the week, each time exuding strained professionalism. Tony keeps his hands to himself, puts on his most straight-laced, efficient mask, and leaves Steve to stew.

Friday evening, Tony gets a ping from the expense request system — Rogers, Steven, commercial airline tickets, JFK to Portland. Tony’s heart snarls at the rejection. It stings more than he expected, that Steve’s choosing second-rate terrorists over Tony’s expertise. It seems that a little light S&M between friends is too gay for America’s finest; so much more appropriate to get gangbanged by Magneto’s goons.

Tony shoves himself up from his office chair and stalks to the liquor cabinet behind his desk. It’s after five, so he’s pouring a double.

He wants to hit someone until he feels better. Carol sometimes lets him come over and play with her and Zarda, and he could enjoy jockeying with Carol for control, strung out between their weird lovers-but-not-quite-allies dynamic. They’re complicated people who bring their entire mess into the bedroom, and treading between them takes almost all of Tony’s cunning.

Plus, Carol does that thing with electricity Tony likes to watch.

Tony’s considering if he’s more likely to succeed if he calls Carol first or Zarda first to request kinky sex, when he gets another expense system notification.

Steve’s airfare request from twenty minutes ago, cancelled.

The half-formed plans for his consolation prize vanish from Tony’s head so fast they practically leave cavitation bubbles in their wake.

Steve’s cracked. He’ll come to Tony tonight, probably soon, a mountain of repressed need all for Tony.

Given the benefit of advance notice, Tony wants to meet Steve in his workshop. It’s Tony’s most personal space; more than his bedroom, even. He’ll have Steve for the first time surrounded by things he’s shaped, all of it branded with his particular genius. Tony’s vain. He likes his own things best. Nobody else can compare.

Practically speaking, the workshop has excellent soundproofing and very secure doors.

Tony keys the locks to open for Steve without a fuss, then rolls up his shirtsleeves to play with his tech while he waits. His current favorite project is environment-responsive visual camouflage. Existing LCD technologies require backlighting, which he dislikes, fail a variety of robustness tests, and suck power like a prostitute with a quota to meet. To replace existing conventional displays, Tony’s developing an array of contractile pigment reservoirs filled with magnetized particles — sort of a cross between an Etch-a-Sketch and octopus skin. 

So far he’s only gotten it to work on about a square inch of material at a time, and even that minimal surface area is hideously expensive to produce. It’s very promising.

Tony loses a few hours in the minutiae of magnetic fields and nanoparticles. He’s scrubbing ferrofluid out from under his fingernails when the heavy doors to his workshop grind open to admit Steve.

Steve’s dressed down in jeans and a tight white t-shirt. He looks like a Tom of Finland drawing come to life; Tony wants to dress him up like a sailor and make him haul on a mainsail. Steve’s lips are pink and his hands are clasped behind his back like he’s afraid if he lets them loose he’ll bump into something precious.

“Steve! Come in, come in,” Tony says, wiping his hands dry with a towel and cocking one hip. “What can I do you for?”

“How’d you know?” Steve asks immediately, direct and square-jawed. He must have come up with that one ahead of time, out in the hallway while he was biting his lips rosy.

Tony examines his fingernails, making sure there isn’t motor oil stuck in his cuticles. “Know what, pumpkin?”

“About the pain.”

“I watched you fight,” Tony says honestly. “And I saw you taking hits you didn’t need to be taking.”

Steve looks down at the floor and grunts an acknowledgement. _Gotcha,_ Tony thinks.

“Do you want my help?” Tony asks.

Steve scratches his jaw and scans the room like he’s expecting a kinky sex machine to jump out of an untidy corner and molest him. “If I said yes, what would happen?” Steve asks warily.

Excitement flutters in Tony’s stomach. He’s almost nervous, which is ridiculous. _It’s just like the first slice into a new block of polyacetal,_ he tells himself. _So many possibilities that it’s hard to start, and then as soon as you commit, it all cuts beautifully._

“I would have you take your shirt off,” Tony says. “And put your hands on that bar there.” Tony points to a steel rod that’s about chest-height for Steve. Tony typically uses it to hang parts that need to be painted so he can access them on all sides; it’s dusted with overspray from primers, lacquers, and airbrushing. Steve could probably twist it into a pretzel, but he’d have to make an effort.

“Would you touch me?”

“Do you want me to?” Tony asks, with a significant glance at Steve’s crotch.

Steve tenses and takes a half-step back. “No.”

“Then I won’t. I’ll just give you what you need. All you have to do is hold the bar.”

Steve’s face softens into yearning when Tony tells him he can stop making choices. He quickly firms up agian, but for a moment Tony sees a man who wants to lay down his burdens and put himself in someone else’s hands.

“I read that this — liking pain — is a sex thing.” Steve says unevenly.

Tony makes an equivocal gesture with one hand. “It can be. Sometimes it’s about getting off, but it can also be about stress relief or a sensation you enjoy.”

“You helping me doesn’t have anything to do with my — with what I like. I’m still straight,” Steve insists, obviously in more of an effort to convince himself than Tony.

“This can just be a favor between friends. You’re in a foul mood anytime we go more than a week without seeing combat, and I have the skills to address that.”

Steve chews on the inside of his cheek for a long moment, then swallows hard. With tortuous slowness, he moves to pull off his shirt. 

Tony drinks in the cut of his hipbones, abs so tight they look like they’d ring if Tony rapped them with his knuckles, and the hard-edged planes of Steve’s ribs. Tony promised to keep his hands to himself, so he doesn’t focus on the perk of Steve’s nipples or ogle the light strip of body hair that disappears into Steve’s jeans. It’s against Tony’s principles to get hard when Steve’s made it clear he wants this to be a no-dicks encounter. He’ll enjoy this _plenty_ without an orgasm as a cherry on top.

Even better than the slow reveal of Steve’s skin is the triumph of watching Steve accept Tony’s proposal. Finally the shirt pulls over Steve’s head, and Tony’s treated to Steve’s face flushed with poorly suppressed interest.

“Scared?” Tony asks, one last little push.

Steve rolls his eyes in response. Then he sets his shoulders and strides over to the bar. He clasps it from underneath with his elbows bent, like he’s at the apex of a pull-up.

“Arms outstretched, palms down,” Tony corrects. “And keep your back straight.”

Tony wants a nice clean canvas to work with, and would rather not worry about wrapping Steve’s biceps. He imagines putting his hands on Steve and arranging him into a precise, difficult pose. Steve has perfect body control; he could hold himself wherever Tony put him. Tony could adjust him down to the inch and he’d never sag out of alignment. The tolerances would be beautiful.

That’s not the opportunity at hand. Steve’s got an itch that Tony’s well-versed in scratching.

Steve cranes his neck to see what Tony’s up to behind him. Tony smiles at him, one part reassuring and two parts hungry.

“Face forward, Captain,” Tony says, as he moves to fetch the two floggers he’s stashed among his more serious leather-working supplies. Steve frowns like he’s considering raising a complaint, then relents and turns to stare resolutely at his knuckles.

Tony’s heavier flogger is made of thick latigo leather dyed a handsome burgundy. It’s nicely broken in but not so well-worn that the sting’s gone out of it. The other is buff cowhide, not as intimidating, but still a quality tool with narrow, biting falls.

Tony sets the heavy flogger on top of a nearby toolbox. He runs the buff flogger through his hands, re-familiarizing himself with its weight and temperament.

“Will you get on with it?” Steve asks, shifting impatiently.

“Anticipation is half the fun,” Tony says, shaking out the falls, savoring the gentle rustle of leather. Steve’s unimpressed, not attuned to the sound of incoming lashes.

“I’m not having fun,” Steve grouses, which is when Tony stops thinking and hits him.

The flogger cracks against the meat of Steve’s left shoulder. The breath whooshes out of Steve, and Tony hits him again in the same spot, laying out the second blow before welts even have a chance to rise from the first. Steve grunts quietly the third time Tony strikes him, surprised and considering like he hadn’t quite expected Tony to hit so hard, and wants to know what’s next.

“Again,” Steve demands when Tony pauses.

Later — if this turns into an arrangement with a later — Tony’s going to teach Steve to be good and take whatever Tony dishes out. Right now, he’s happy to hear Steve asking for more.

Tony swings in a quick, tight arc and snaps Steve in the ribs. Steve jerks and lets out a humph of approval. He nods to himself and settles into the position Tony’s dictated, for all the world like a diner at a high-end steakhouse who’s finally communicated to the waitstaff their personal definition of _barely rare_. Tony almost wants to laugh at him, getting situated like he’s getting a mani-pedi at his usual salon while it’s _Tony_ behind the whip.

It’s sweet that Steve thinks this is a transaction where he tells Tony he’d like two scoops of pecan praline and wanders off to enjoy his mediocre ice cream. Tony wonders what he did wrong to make Steve expect him to be _gentle_. He isn’t here to serve Steve whatever he orders off the menu. It’s going to take a lot more than some rotely delivered sting to satisfy the yen Steve’s been chasing out in the field.

Tony works Steve from the base of his spine up to his shoulder-blades until he’s just starting to glow. He can tell Steve’s starting to get bored, his attention drifting. Steve drums his fingers between strikes, no longer impressed.

That’s the warmup done.

Tony switches hands and leans his shoulder into the next blow. Steve’s back arches, and he pants out a harsh breath.

“Were you getting comfortable?” Tony asks sweetly.

He doesn’t give Steve time to answer before laying a series of hits in a neat X across his back. Steve opens his mouth to say something but all that comes out are voiceless little gasps as the falls thud against his ribs.

Tony finishes with a final crack- _crack_ of paired blows, then leans back and whips Steve at full strength across the full breadth of his shoulders.

Leather slaps against skin and Steve yells. Tony hits him the same way again, and again, yanking hoarse shouts out of Steve one swing at a time.

Tony preens inwardly in satisfaction. He was worried he’d need the heavier flogger to get any noise out of Steve, but it looks like he can break over Steve’s pain threshold without bringing out the really big guns.

Without warning, Tony pulls his next blow. He lets the falls sing through the air then cuts their momentum at the last moment, letting them slither softly over Steve’s back. Steve’s skin jumps at every slide of leather, uncertainty about the nature of the next blow amplifying every touch.

As the third gentle swish of leather alights down on Steve’s back, he whimpers. It’s a bitten-off, desperate sound, and as soon as he’s made it Steve drops his head to smother his face in his upper arm.

Tony cheats him out of the next hit as well and earns himself a hitching whine. Steve’s hips twitch forward, and he huffs out a series of heavy, anxious breaths. He’s dying for it, barely holding on. 

Tony rocks back on his heels, considering. Steve can’t take another letdown without breaking his focus, anticipation crumbling into frustration. The next thing has to be satisfying. Tony slowly picks up the latigo leather flogger.

Steve’s shivering from being forced to wait. Tony smacks the flogger against his palm, a sharp counterpoint to the low, agonized sound rumbling around Steve’s chest. Tony discovers that he’s thrumming with tension as well, riding the high of playing Steve’s beautiful body using nothing but what he can observe, no shared sexual history to back him up, relying only on his attention and his intuition.

Tony luxuriates for a moment in how much he wants the next strike to _sear_.

The falls whistle through the air, broadcasting that the tricks are over: this is the real one. Steve’s back cords tight the second before the fine leather touches him. Then the flogger makes contact with a loud, flat slap.

Steve’s cry is strangled, and the top half of his body crumples forward until his forehead is pressed against the steel bar. He shudders, each breath stumbling over a nasal whine. So strong, and Tony’s made him _quake._ Tony imagines scraping up a handful of Steve’s short hair and pulling as hard as until the pale column of Steve’s neck is laid out taut and begging for Tony to bite it. But Tony’s not allowed to touch Steve with his hands. That’s out of bounds. He’s here to undo Steve using impact, his voice, and nothing else.

Tony circles Steve, waiting for him to recover. Something about the high-frequency tremble of Steve’s stomach muscles tips Tony off, and he allows himself to look below the belt.

Steve’s huge and hard in his jeans, dick straining impressively against the denim. 

_Oh, you gorgeous bastard_ , Tony thinks, half-breathless with amazement. Steve’s still making broken noises, teeth gritted and both eyes screwed shut. There’s a wet spot on the front of his jeans where his cock is leaking precome. Tony would never have dared to hope that Steve was the kind of masochist who could get off from pain alone, yet here he is, bracing himself against orgasm. 

Tony wants nothing more than to beat Steve until he comes. But this skates up to the edge of their roughly-sketched agreement. Technically, Tony isn’t touching Steve, but that’s only the letter of the law. When Tony agreed not to touch Steve, it had been a promise that he’d leave Steve a screen of plausible deniability between what they were doing together and real gay sex. Laying into Steve until he screams and writhes and shoots in his pants ruins the illusion that this is about correcting Steve’s performance in the field.

But Tony _wants_ it.

Tony wants to hear Steve’s voice break as he comes under Tony’s harsh hand. He wants to time his strikes with the erratic jerk of Steve’s hips as he empties himself so that every spit of come is accompanied by a spike of pain.

The temptation is strong, but that’s not how Tony plays. He relaxes his arm and steps around to Steve’s front, flogger loose in his fist. He has to at least give Steve an out, a way to end the scene without losing face. 

“How’d you enjoy the demonstration?” Tony asks, resting his hands on his hips and smirking convincingly.

Steve lifts his head, breathing hard. He wipes his mouth on his forearm and looks up at Tony, eyes wide and dark. “‘S over?” Steve gasps.

“That depends on if I’ve persuaded you to come find me when you’re fancying starting a fight so you can lose it, or if you’re still on the fence.”

Steve’s eyes flick toward the door, then shudder shut as his dick twitches. Arousal wars with shame on his face. If Steve doesn’t go for this opportunity to leave, Tony’s taking that as tacit permission to push Steve as far as he can.

“Keep convincing me,” Steve says thickly, and pushes himself upright again, back into the position Tony had directed him to take.

“All right then,” Tony says, and bites down on the impulse to praise Steve for being his _good boy_.

Steve has no idea how much Tony could do with the power he’s willingly handed over.

The heavy latigo leather gives Tony the strike power to drive Steve higher than he could with the previous flogger. He lets it thud into Steve’s shoulders in a slow, steady rhythm, giving Steve time to build up a little fear before each coming blow.

Every time the falls land, Steve’s thighs shake.

Tony gets in a particularly vicious swing and Steve shouts his next cry, agony ringing tinny against the metal walls of the workshop. On the next strike Steve shouts again, and he collapses forward, half-sobbing. His back is red and raw with welts.

“Keep your goddamn elbows straight while I hit you,” Tony barks, cracking low across Steve’s back. His control is wavering — that was purely for himself, solely to satisfy his desire to make Steve struggle. Steve moans and strains to comply while Tony continues to hit him, arm muscles trembling against the way his body flinches away with every snap of the flogger.

Steve gets one elbow locked, and Tony hits him harder in reward. Steve yells and throws his head back, teeth bared, thighs straining. His face is red and he’s sheened with sweat, expression stiff with agony. The sounds slipping out of his mouth are high and broken, animal noises of pain.

Tony wonders if Steve wants it to stop. He wonders if Steve is holding on because he’s too stubborn to call it, or if he’s just too desperate to come.

Or maybe Steve is holding on because Tony told him to, and he’s given himself over to Tony so thoroughly that he’ll submit to anything Tony wants from him. 

“Look at you,” Tony says, raising his voice as he strikes Steve again. “Taking it, doing only what I want, giving in to the thing you need. You’re so good, Steve, you’re almost done, let go, it’s just pain, let it happen!”

Tony flicks his wrist in circles, hitting the same spot on Steve’s right shoulder at the apex of every swing, spreading pain across the surface and then driving it down, deep into the meat of Steve. Steve trembles in place as he tries to keep his hips from working the air, hopelessly attempting to keep Tony from noticing what’s clearly happening. 

Steve’s entire body goes rigid, clenched so tightly that he’s barely responsive to Tony flogging him, and Tony knows he’s coming in his pants. Watching devastates Tony with lust; Captain America, pillar of patriotic values and pinnacle of humanity, unable to keep from spilling himself from nothing more than a good, hard flogging.

Steve comes silently, throat locked up against anything that might betray him, a habit Tony sees frequently in military men, ground in from sneakily jerking off in barracks full of other men doing the same. Tony needs one last shout; he’s going to force one more wanton noise from Steve’s stubborn lungs before he’s satisfied. 

As Steve chokes through the last shocks of his orgasm, Tony takes a final full swing at the spot he’s been working over.

When the blow lands, Steve _howls_. His hands go white-knuckled around the paint-spattered steel pole, and he yells through his teeth as the pain takes its time to fade. It’s incredible. Tony’s spoiled for every other masochist. This is the one he wants to keep.

Tony drops the flogger to the floor and tries to catch his breath, chest heaving almost as hard as Steve’s.

Steve coughs and straightens, peeling his hands off Tony’s metal bar one finger at a time. The pipe has taken a hit -- it’s crunched in a couple of places like a trashed cardboard tube — but it’ll still work for hanging things. Light things.

Steve pulls himself together faster than Tony would have thought possible. Tony had been planning on providing some water and soothing conversation afterwards until Steve felt steady enough to go home, but in the amount of time it takes Tony to stow his implements, Steve’s already most of the way back to his normal self. If Tony didn’t know there was come running down his thigh, he’d never have guessed. The only giveaway is the way Steve’s eyes are still faintly glazed, and he’s tracking slightly slower than he should be, reaction speed barely above baseline human.

“Thank you, Tony,” Steve says, and Tony can barely contain the shudder of pleasure at Steve thanking him for hurting him. Tony wants to hear Steve say that while he comes at Tony’s command, dragging the words from his pleasure-tight throat. Steve stares at Tony, some of the hard-edged armor in his gaze softening. His expression goes distant as he decides what the fallout of what they’ve done is going to be. 

Are they going to act like Steve didn’t come? Steve’s not stupid — he has to know that Tony caught on. Maybe he’s fooling himself. It was a near thing, but Tony made it through without getting noticeably hard. If Steve wants to leave with his heterosexual dignity intact, Tony can play along.

Tony finds that his heart has unexpectedly climbed into his mouth, waiting for Steve to bolt.

Steve nods briskly to himself, contemplation over. “I think that helped.”

Satisfaction and relief bloom in tandem beneath Tony’s ribcage. He can improve on any design, even Captain America’s. Steve had a need he couldn’t articulate, too burdened by shame to even face it directly, and Tony’s fixed him up without him even having to ask.

“Anytime,” Tony says lightly, putting on the grin for closing a deal, the one that says _isn’t it amazing, we both came out ahead!_ He doesn’t look at the way Steve shoves his fists deep in his pockets, or the way he rolls one shoulder to test the mobility of his sore back. It’s not the time to wonder if he’s stumbled deeper into this than he’d initially thought.

* * *

Steve gives up on making the militant Oregonian mutants his personal assignment and the mission ends up being a group project instead. Wanda and Pietro sniff at the idea of clashing with their mutant compatriots, which leaves Tony, Jan, Clint and Steve on the team.

The Ultimates all cram into their transport jet on Monday morning like it’s a school bus and everyone’s excited to go see the Natural History Museum for the eighth time since first grade. Time to go look at some dead stuff, kids!

For the Ultimates, any dead stuff will be quite a bit fresher. Specifically, it’ll have been alive when the Ultimates arrive.

Steve won’t quite meet Tony’s eyes, and he goes silent and grits his teeth when the banter between Tony and Clint veers toward the crude. As if Tony’s going to let something slip. Much more incriminating is how Steve flinches every time Tony says a dirty word. Unable to help himself, Tony makes a joke about Elon Musk coming in his pants when Tony unveiled his latest 3D printed ceramics at the Geneva Motor Show.

It makes Steve go red, and he twists his bright leather gloves in his hands so hard they squeak. His rigid shoulders sag a fraction, and his limitless bulk looks a little bit smaller.

A muscle jumps in Steve’s cheek as he scowls, stormy expression covering for embarrassment or shame. Usually, Tony enjoys needling people and watching them squirm. Instead, watching Steve cringe, Tony feels like a heel.

Luckily for Steve, Clint doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary about him being a prude about sex. Tony changes the subject.

The mutant separatists have set up shop in a cute little ranch surrounded by golden range-land. Tony feels uncomfortable surrounded by so much pastoralism. He doesn’t _do_ quaint. There’s even an old bay gelding out back of the main house, hind hoof lifted while he naps, unconcerned with the roar of engines.

The stables are full of automatic rifles, which makes Tony feel much more at home.

Tony fights like a goddamn moron because he’s watching Steve the entire time. Luckily, Tony’s brilliant at baseline, so even without paying attention he’s good.

Clint and Jan take on the main group, but the mutant separatist club has a short-range teleporter, and she’s almost impossible to hit. Steve and Tony take her on together while the rest of the team storm the barn. She’s wickedly fast — Tony finds his repulsor blasts blackening circles of brown grass like he’s making crop circles

Tony resents doing anything that might contribute to UFO conspiracy theories. The _I Want To Believe_ crew is doubly smug and triply crazy now that aliens are undeniably real.

He’s pleased to note that Steve hasn’t taken any unnecessary damage. Something must have worked for him last Friday: his energy is steadier, focused on the goal instead of whatever wild impulse has gripped him in battle for the past several months. Fighting next to him is like having the flow of a river at your side — certain and implacable.

The obnoxious teleporter is starting to wear on both of their nerves. The open fields give Steve little to bounce his shield off of, and every time she vanishes and he misses the damn thing goes spinning across the pasture, forcing Steve to sprint after it like a hapless frisbee player.

At least the teleporter is also rattled. She’d be better off taking the opportunity to cut and run, but she’s blind with fury and keeps rushing at them, flinging nasty sucking holes into the air that collapse with a snap like cracking bone. Tony watches one clip a fencepost and it takes a spherical bite out of the wood, leaving behind a tiny ball of compressed carbon that falls and is lost in the grass.

 _Gravity powers, nice,_ Tony thinks. _I wonder what she could have been with a capable theoretical physicist at her side to really test the limits of what she can do._

_Probably still a terrorist, but an infinitely more dangerous one. Still..._

Steve bends over at the waist and puts his hands on his knees, huffing for breath. It takes a lot to wind him, but he’s been running in frustrated zig-zags for fifteen minutes solid. Tony hovers above him, watching for incoming gravity-bolts.

Miss Emotionally Unstable Gravitron blinks into existence and rushes Steve. She’s shouting something about human scum and foiled plans, and flickering in and out of space so fast she’s almost impossible to track. Steve springs back into action, breather cut short. He looks frayed, starting to go raw around the edges. Tony feels nauseous with tension, mentally willing Steve to hold it together.

Tony throws a forcefield around her and she teleports right through it. The two vodka sours before the plane ride had not been enough for this.

Fuck’s sake, she’s awfully angry.

Berserker rage seems like a useful quality in an extremist, Tony figures.

Over the open radio channel Tony hears Steve growl, “Fine. Come at me, lady.” Then he drops his shield on the grass.

The teleporter is so fast she practically flies at him. Steve holds his ground, undefended. Tony swears and tries to shoot down Black Hole Girl before she can conjure a mini gravity well in the center of Steve’s chest and turn his heart into a marble.

 _Don’t you dare,_ Tony almost shouts at Steve. _Don’t let her hit you!_

“Eat shit!” she screams, and punches Steve so hard in the nose his head snaps back and he immediately starts to bleed. She socks him again in the eye, then knees him in the family jewels.

The air whooshes out of Steve and he grunts unhappily in pain.

Then, to Tony’s surprise, the teleporter spits at him and turns tail, vanishing and reappearing halfway across the field, then jumping away again, flickering off into the distance a few hundred feet at a time.

Tony’s not chasing her. He’s fast, but not dimension-bending fast. Tony lands heavily next to Steve, who’s mopping ineffectually at his nose with his leather vambraces, and flips the face of the armor up.

“The hell was that, Cap?” Tony snaps, more venomously than he means to.

“Tactics,” Steve says shortly.

Tony regards Steve icily, unsure why this cuts like a betrayal.

Steve glares mulishly back at him. “I used to be a scrappy little weed like that. Sometimes you can’t stop until you get one good hit in.”

It’s a reasonable answer and Tony hates it. He slams the faceplate down with a loud clang. The sound bounces around inside the helmet and makes Tony’s teeth hurt. Then he lifts off and hovers in front of Steve. “I’m flying home by myself,” he says, feeling like a petty child and not enjoying it. “Don’t hold the jet for me.”

Steve doesn’t respond, just kicks his shield up off the ground and catches it with one hand. It’s got bits of wet grass stuck to the white star, and a smear of dirt or cow patty marring one edge. Steve’s nose is still bleeding sluggishly, and his right eyelid is starting to puff up, the harbinger of a magnificent shiner.

“We’ve got our three rounded up,” Jan says over the comms. “Where are you holding your teleporting friend?”

“She got away,” Tony snarls, and then jets off, unable to stand the sight of Steve’s stubborn face any longer.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

The next forty-eight hours find Tony in a foul mood. He drinks a lot, even for him, and makes an ass of himself in an research meeting, insisting that his top superconductor engineer has lowballed the decay coefficients for a full ten minutes before realizing that it's himself who’s dropped a square root in his estimations and he’s berating a man who’s entirely correct.

Tony returns all the things he’d stashed for Steve to their usual places in his toy closet. He doesn’t want to look at them. Obviously Steve’s going back to getting his kicks in the field. That’s fine. It’s his prerogative.

It’s not a reflection of Tony’s skill. He’d brought Steve off without laying a finger on him, which was damn impressive.

Tony’s lounging in his workshop, taking a break because he can’t focus. He’s indulging in one of his favorite guilty pleasures: Jeopardy! reruns. Tony likes to shout the wrong answer the contestants are about to say before they open their mouths to blow it. It’s fun when they surprise him by being smarter than he expects.

“You fish-faced idiot, it’s not _What is flounder?_ ” Tony laughs, and, sure enough, Sandra picks flounder instead of halibut. She looks like she watched The Little Mermaid a lot as a kid.

Tony takes a self-satisfied sip of martini and settles more comfortably into his workshop robe. He keeps the shop cold, because it makes the machines happy and he hates getting hot in his leather apron and welding gear during fabrication. But if he sits still too long the chill gets into his bones, so he keeps a lovely silk jacquard dressing gown around. The loud paisley hides some of the motor oil stains, and the lining is cozy.

Trebek is announcing the clue for Final Jeopardy! when Tony hears the click and grind of the workshop doors opening.

Someone is here to bother him.

God, he hopes it’s not Greg. Tony’s vulture of a twin has been circling amorally around the Ultimates lately, hoping that Tony will conveniently drop dead. Too bad for him — cancer’s in remission, modern medicine is a marvel.

Tony is _absolutely_ not getting out of his comfortable overstuffed recliner for that douchebag. He dyes his _beard_ , the insane vain bastard. Nobody should want to be blond that badly.

With a dramatic sigh, Tony turns to see who it is.

It’s Steve.

Tony’s opening barb dies in his throat.

There’s no guarantee that Steve is here for what Tony wants him to be here for.  
Steve could be here to apologize to Tony for getting hit in the nose, or on some mundane piece of Ultimates business. It could be nothing.

Tony’s pretty certain it’s not. 

For one, Steve’s dressed _sexy_. 

Well, sexy deserves a qualifier. Steve doesn’t understand seduction — that’s why he’s so deliciously vulnerable to Tony. But his hair is fluffed like he took off and put on a number of shirts before coming down to see Tony. He’s put on a soft blue henley that’s seen a few too many washes and brown slacks that are belted a little too high on his waist to be fashionable. It’s an effort. He’s anxious about what Tony will think of him. Steve doesn’t know how to dress himself and wouldn’t know on-trend if it danced naked in front of him and then hit him in the head with a brick, but that just makes Tony want to sweep him into his favorite tailor’s shop and re-make him all the more.

“Hey,” Steve says, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking his weight forward and back. He’s stopped a good ten feet away, granting Tony much more personal space than he desires.

“Hey yourself.”

“You seem awful busy. I can come back later,” Steve says, grinning crookedly at Tony’s Jeopardy. Christ alive, the man has a sense of humor under all that muscle.

Tony stretches, watching through half-closed eyes how Steve’s gaze snaps back to his body. “Show’s almost over,” he says. 

He gets out of his chair, twitches his dressing gown into place so it flatters his chest — he’s not wearing a shirt underneath it because the shirt he _was_ wearing is a touch soaked in volatile chromium salts at the moment, but he can pretend he’s bare-chested for the sex appeal — and closes most of the distance between himself and Steve.

“What do you want, dear?” Tony asks, reaching out and adjusting the drape of Steve’s shirt so it better flatters his narrow waist. This time Tony’s going to do a good enough job to make Steve stay. He’s not going to let Steve back into battle to get punched in the nose by a physics-defying twenty-something wearing consignment shop chic. Steve needs to know which side his bread is buttered on, and it’s here, with Tony, in exquisite pain.

Steve’s throat works, and he looks away, jaw clenching. “I think you know.” His voice is smaller than usual, strained with poorly-repressed nerves. Poor thing, trapped between lust and a hard place. Tony can make that all better.

“Do you want me to hurt you again? Make you feel oh-so-bad and oh-so-good?”

“You’re better than getting hit in a fight,” Steve says tightly, hands still in his pockets. Tony would damn sure hope he’s better. He’s worked hard to get this good. “You make it feel safe.”

Tony wasn’t expecting Steve to say anything like _that._ It curdles his stomach — not entirely pleasantly. He’s pleased, obviously, the point is that anyone under Tony’s hand feels, well, not _comfortable_ , but secure, afraid of what he’ll dole out but not afraid of him. But — Steve can’t just say things like that. Not to Tony, not with his calm, honest voice. _Go away,_ Tony’s conscience whispers to Steve. _Don’t trust me._

Tony must pause for too long, because Steve’s face twists. 

Shit. Tony scrambles, off-balance. “I don’t have my flogger handy,” he says quickly. “That’s all.”

Steve brightens warily. “Rain check, then?” he asks, tone admirably light for someone so bad at lying.

Tony shakes his head in mock chagrin and chucks Steve under the chin. Steve sniffs in surprise. Probably nobody has tried that move on him since he was a teenager the size of a twig. “Honey, do you really think I need specialized tools to make you yelp?”

“No?”

“Good answer,” Tony says, and pats Steve on the cheek. 

Tony’s talking a big game, but he hasn’t quite solved the no-equipment issue. Spanking Steve isn’t going to be very effective, given his obnoxiously resilient body. He guides Steve with a gentle touch on his shoulder over to a tall stool. 

Steve sits gingerly, like he’s unsure if the stool will bear his weight. He must have broken some furniture since the army turned him into a brick shithouse. 

Steve rubs his hands on his thighs, clearly unsure what to do with them. Steve has nice hands. They’re broad and surprisingly soft, lacking calluses or scars. The only part of them that’s beat up is the fingernails. Tony figures you can’t heal keratin, and having him regenerate them super-fast would have the poor man constantly filing them down. Nail care doesn’t seem like Steve’s thing. 

Staring at Steve’s hands gives Tony an idea. He just needs the right bit of rod. Something with only a little give to it, substantial but still slightly whippy. 

Aluminum? Too unforgiving, and might bend. He has pine dowels, but they’d splinter to shards if broken. He could cut a leather strop, but then he’d want to do it properly, which meant getting out the hammer and some rivets, which — not the time. Tony needs to turn off his engineer brain and turn on the sex one. 

“Do you want me to take my shirt off again?” Steve asks softly. 

Tony stops scanning the workshop for suitable materials and focuses back on Steve. He looks so uncertain it kills Tony. Steve, who screams at aliens to stop being pussies and then tears their heads off, is out of his depth. 

_You make it feel safe,_ Steve had said. 

“How about you push up your sleeves and take your socks and shoes off for now,” Tony says.

It makes Tony’s skin crawl to have someone barefoot in his workshop, but he loves how vulnerable losing their shoes makes a person. It says _you can’t run from me_ on a deep, instinctive level. Tony plans to take that powerlessness and crank it up to maximum as soon as he has Steve warmed up. 

_Styrene!_ Tony thinks at last. That’s what he wants to hit Steve with. It’s a mostly-rigid plastic, easy to work with, great for prototyping. He has a stash of half-inch round somewhere. 

By the time he finds a length of round styrene rod, Steve is barefoot and has his sleeves neatly cuffed. Tony licks his teeth in anticipation. 

“Bit too long,” Tony explains, waving the six-foot rod. “Won’t take a second, then I’ll be right with you.”

Steve nods and bites his lip, tracking Tony’s every move. 

Tony flicks on the table saw, knocks the guide sled away, and nips his styrene down to a nice size for caning. He could have used a handsaw or, honestly, tin snips, but power tools are so butch, he can’t resist.

Tony smacks his palm a few times with his new cane, testing it out. It has a lovely, even sting. He tries the inside of his forearm too, a quick patter of taps to check the balance, and feels satisfied that he eyeballed the length correctly.

“You’re using that?” Steve asks, wrinkling his forehead.

Tony regards his improvised tool and tips his head in acquiescence. “I’ll admit it’s not the most aesthetically pleasing thing. White plastic, ugh. Rattan is more handsome, but I don’t have any handy.”

Steve shakes his head. “It looks fine,” he says. “But — it’s just a little stick.”

This perfect, beautiful ignoramus — Tony is so lucky. He has to suppress a shimmy of delight thinking of how satisfying it’s going to be breaking that cocky expression into tiny, quivering pieces.

“It’s not the size that matters, sugar,” Tony says, coming close so he can drag the tip of the cane down the top of Steve’s thigh.

Tony’s always been fascinated by the human ability to feel texture from a distance. By the vibrations running down a few feet of plastic he can divine the weave of Steve’s trousers and the hardness of the muscle corded underneath them, almost as well as he could by touching Steve directly. Steve swallows and his knees fall open, so Tony takes advantage of that — he always presses an advantage, it’s in his nature — and runs the tip of the cane back up the inside of Steve’s thigh, tracing delicately along the inseam and towards Steve’s crotch. He stops just shy of propriety.

“It matters some,” Steve says, brow still knitted, and Tony has the absurd desire to laugh and kiss him right between the eyebrows. He settles on laughing and tapping Steve a few times gently on the knee.

“Give me your left hand,” Tony demands, and Steve offers it immediately. Tony flips Steve’s hand palm side up and positions it flat, fingers together, thumb tucked against the side. “Hold that there.”

Steve does, hand outstretched, looking like a waiter who’s lost his platter. Tony lays his cane across Steve’s palm. He goes easy at first, small bouncing taps. Tony’s always liked the sound of a cane hitting skin. It’s quick and crisp, one of the more precise tools at his disposal.

“I had schoolmarms who rapped my knuckles harder than this,” Steve says.

“Mmmmm, did you now?” Tony asks, still tapping, moving up and down the meat of Steve’s palm.

“Got mouthy sometimes.”

Tony hums in acknowledgement. Steve shifts on the stool, impatient. Tony loves watching him wait. On stakeouts, Steve takes boredom in stride. He lays a rifle across his knees and sits like he’s cast in bronze. Waiting for Tony to hit him, Steve fidgets.

Tony waits until Steve takes a breath in preparation to complain. Then he flicks his wrist and cracks Steve properly across the palm.

Steve chokes on his unformed words. His fingers curl in on the line of hurt Tony’s laid onto him.

“Ah-ah, no,” Tony says, taking the cane away. “Don’t bend your fingers, you don’t want me to hit those.”

Steve breathes out through his nose and forces his hand flat again.

Tony goes back to work, alternating easy taps and harder ones. Steve’s breath quickens, and his forearm starts to tremble with the effort of not jerking away. He starts making strained noises after each good hard crack.

“How do you like my little stick?” Tony asks, stopping to press it flat across Steve’s open hand. Steve’s palm is rosy, the skin starting to heat and shine.

Steve looks up at Tony, eyes a touch glassy. He licks his lips and nods. It wasn’t a yes or no kind of question, but Tony likes a yes nonetheless.

Tony sets his servicable plastic cane off to the side and takes Steve’s sore hand, massaging the meat of it with both thumbs. Steve hisses in pain but lets Tony have him. Tony rubs gently, finding places where Steve’s muscles have tensed up from holding still and working them lose. He knows it hurts, having someone prod at a place that’s just been caned, but Steve pushes into his hands, eating up the touch.

Tony strokes Steve lightly from the inside of his wrist to the tips of his fingers, and Steve makes a small, broken sound. This is a lot more hands-on than the last time, Tony realizes belatedly. It feels so natural to put his hands on Steve like this.

He wonders if he’s crossed a line.

Tony halts, Steve’s hand still held between both of his, and makes eye contact, gauging Steve’s response. _Is this too gay for you, Captain?_

Steve looks back, and he seems to read why Tony’s stopped. There’s a moment that has Tony on tenterhooks, and then Steve adjusts his seat on the stool in a way that tugs his pants tight against his crotch and lets Tony see that he’s hard.

_Oh-ho._

Steve looks away, cheeks aflame. Tony loves an escalation; his dick twitches at the plausibly deniable way Steve’s baring himself.

“I don’t, don’t — “ Steve says haltingly, bringing his knees together again, “ — can we do it like last time?”

If Steve wants to come just from pain again, Tony is beyond fine with that. He doesn’t have to touch Steve’s lovely straining dick to delight in this.

“I’d love to,” Tony says lowly. “I’ll do your other hand now, if you want.”

Steve takes a shaky breath and drops his left hand, lifting his right to take its place.

True to his word, Tony warms Steve’s right palm up, building until Steve’s muscles start to fail and go unsteady.

“Five more,” Tony says. Steve makes a strangled noise of protest. “You can do it,” Tony reassures him. “Don’t watch. Look up, Steve. Focus on me, not what I’m doing to you.”

Steve takes stock of Tony, eyes roving from his face, down the deep vee of bare chest revealed by Tony’s dressing gown, pausing over Tony’s covered crotch and traveling back up. Tony thinks it might be time for a little escalation of his own. Steve gave Tony a peek; Tony’ll happily return that favor.

One-handed, Tony pulls the belt to his robe loose and lets it fall open, revealing what is now an obvious erection. _Full disclosure, Steve. Look at what you’re doing for me._ Steve notices right away.

“Lord have mercy,” Steve says, barely voicing the vowels. 

“Can you take five more?” Tony asks, and it’s two questions at once.

Slowly, Steve nods. “Do it.”

Tony cracks three strikes across Steve’s palm fast, one-two-three in the same place without pity. Steve’s fingers start to close, wincing away, but his gaze finds Tony’s face and they relax. Tony bounces the whippy end of the cane lightly for a torturous moment, then puts his wrist into it and hits Steve for four. Steve groans through his teeth, but he keeps his hand open. His handsome face is painted with yearning.

The last strike rings loud. Steve’s fist closes over it, trapping the cane and holding it tight along with the pain. He groans and curls forward, his head bumping into Tony’s bare chest, his hair soft and tickling. Tony lets Steve have the cane and strokes his shoulders with both hands, murmuring soothing things that don’t mean anything.

“I didn’t — not quite — “ Steve says, wretchedly. Tony knew without being told that Steve didn’t come yet, but Steve seems to think it’s a failure.

Tony pets Steve’s hair softly. “We’re done with your hands,” he whispers, because Steve’s definitely had enough of that. “You did it, you held up wonderfully. But it doesn’t have to be over. I can keep hurting you.”

“Okay,” Steve says, his head still pressed against Tony’s chest. “Please.”

Tony feels something touch his thigh and looks down. It’s his styrene rod — Steve is offering it back. “Thank you,” Tony says softly as he takes it. He didn’t expect Steve to do that, and it makes him feel soft in some places and very, very hard in others. Steve shudders against Tony as the cane slides free from his fingers.

It takes a few more minutes of rubbing Steve’s back before Steve is ready to pick himself up again. To Tony’s surprise, he feels a chill of loss when Steve straightens. He likes holding Steve more than he should. Steve is just — his body is large and solid, and he’s always where Tony expects him to be; he’ll never break without warning. Safe, Tony realizes. Steve is safe.

Tony sweeps _that_ unsettling thought out of his head and steps away from Steve.

“How long can you stand on one foot?”

Steve blinks at the question. “Haven’t ever checked,” he says. “I expect however long somebody wanted me to.”

A happy little shiver travels up Tony’s spine. The next bit is going to be fun.

Tony makes Steve get up and stand in front of the slightly-dented bar he’d had Steve hold last time. “Don’t grab it unless you’re about to fall,” he instructs. “It’s only there for insurance so I don’t have to worry about you landing on me.”

Steve looks down at his rosy palms and flexes his fingers. “That’ll hurt,” he says. Steve’s hands aren’t going to be much fun to grab anything with for a few hours.

Tony smiles, feeling delightfully evil. “Guess you should try not to fall, hm?”

Then he kneels down beside Steve, robe pooling around his hips, and wraps his free hand around Steve’s ankle. With barely the suggestion of force, Steve lifts his foot for Tony. 

Even balanced on one leg, Steve is steady as a tree trunk. Tony allows himself one lingering glance up Steve’s body. He knows for a fact there’s a very nice dick _right there_ , hidden in Steve’s bland pants. Hm, mostly hidden. A hard-on like that is tricky to keep under wraps. 

Tony has it on good authority that he gives an excellent blowjob. It would feel so wonderful to pull Steve’s cock out and suck him off. Maybe Steve’s big, shy hands would pet Tony’s hair. Steve could cradle Tony’s face, feel how his giant horn was stretching Tony’s cheeks taut, and Tony would be able to feel the heat radiating from Steve’s palms, still hot from lashing.

Steve’s dick is strictly off limits, Tony reminds himself. Too gay. 

Steve is staring down at him, flushed with nerves. Tony’s going to do right by him.

“This is going to be intense,” Tony warns. Bastinado — whipping the soles of the feet — is an age-old torture technique, used world-wide. It’s even mentioned in the _Bible._ Barely leaves marks, and hurts like the dickens. Nobody expects feet to be so sensitive to pain; they think that the thick callouses down there will save them. The perfect thing to cut a supersoldier down to size.

Steve smirks, confident. “You think I’ve started expecting you to be _nice_ in the last five minutes?”

It’s like Steve’s _knows_ that Tony takes particular pleasure in breaking down a cocky little shit and making them cry. He couldn’t be hotter if he tried — the fact he’s not trying makes him even more delicious. 

Tony firms up his grip on Steve’s ankle and lays down a quick set of hard, stinging blows on the arch of his foot.

“Shit, _ow_ ,” Steve says, yanking his foot away. Tony lets him go and Steve puts it on the ground. He hisses as the cold concrete touches his sore foot. 

“I _told_ you.”

“Wasn’t ready,” Steve gasps. He pants for a moment, then puts his foot back in Tony’s hand. “Now I am. Hard as you like, Stark. Make it mean.”

Tony barely restrains himself from surging to his feet and kissing Steve until they’re both drowning in it. He brings the cane down in Steve’s heel instead. The pain makes all the breath whine out of Steve’s lungs. 

“You beautiful bastard,” Tony whispers fervently. He pats the cane up and down the sole of Steve’s foot, knowing that even that light touch bites. “You’re incredible, any sadist would worship you. I’m going to beat you until you _cry_ , darling.”

Steve’s next inhale is a sob.

Tony settles into a rhythm of soft and hard, feeling Steve tense and release above him in step. Steve’s enduring by sending the pain to his dick, stomach muscles jerking subtly in syncopation with Tony’s blows. When Tony glances up to see, Steve’s face is twisted up in pleasure-pain, neck corded, biting his lip until the blood’s bleached out of it.

Tony canes Steve until the leg he’s balancing on starts to tremble.

He’s almost there. Only a little more. Tony lets go of Steve’s ankle and rises. Steve, a wise man, keeps his foot off the ground, lowering it just enough to rest a fraction of his weight on his toes. Tony grips Steve by the forearm, steadying him. Even that small touch makes Steve’s eyes fall closed in relief, and his hips stutter forward.

God, he’s so desperate. If Tony stands here long enough, he thinks Steve’s resolve will break, and he’ll fall forward and rut against Tony’s thigh until he comes.

That thought makes _Tony’s_ hips twitch. Better to not take the chance.

“I want you to do something for me, Steve, and it’s going to unmake you,” Tony whispers.

Steve nods, breath coming in little hitches, mouth soft, lips red and parted.

“Your other foot,” Tony says lowly.

Steve’s eyes go wide, and he shakes his head. “But — I’ll have to stand — ”

“I know.”

“Tony, please,” Steve begs, tears welling in his eyes. “It already hurts.”

“It’s going to be like standing on knives,” Tony agrees. “Every miniscule imperfection in my floor will make you feel like it’s grinding into your bones. It will be _so bad_ , Steve.”

_And you’ll come with the force of a five-care pileup,_ Tony thinks.

Tony sinks gracefully to his knees and waits, cane poised.

Agonizingly slowly, Steve places his beaten foot flat against the floor. He tries putting some weight on it and makes a choked-off sound of agony. Tony expects that the window while Steve can do this is very narrow.

“Cry for me,” Tony demands. “You’re in pain, you’re allowed, scream it out.”

And Steve does scream. He puts all his lungs behind it, a giant cathartic noise, and Tony’s in danger of coming in his pants, knowing he drew that out of Steve. “Good man, Steve, you can do this, you’re everything I want,” Tony says, hoarse with his own desire.

Steve’s shaking hand finds Tony’s hair, and he buries his fingers in it like it’s a lifeline. It’s the first time Steve’s touched Tony instead of Tony touching Steve. It feels like benediction.

For a split second, Steve has it. He stands on his abused foot, and only a supersoldier could take this, there’s nobody else Tony can do this to. Tony snatches his ankle in an iron grip, fiercely holding him still. Steve cries out, forced to keep his balance, and Tony cracks his lifted foot twice with the cane before Steve can put it back down.

It’s enough. Steve sobs as he comes and his knees fail him entirely. He tries to grab the bar in front of him as he goes down, but it abruptly bends under the sudden weight and Steve’s fingers slip loose. Tony catches him the best he can, but it’s like one man trying to shore up a falling building.

Steve clutches the front of Tony’s robe and buries his face in the crook of Tony’s neck. He groans and bites just above Tony’s collar, sinking in his teeth in a small, savage act of revenge. Tony holds him there, gasping along with him, Steve’s mouth a hot bright star of pain. Steve’s orgasm takes and takes him in violent jerks. His hips work the air futilely, thrusting in the scant void between their bodies. Tony thinks _fuck it_ and sticks a hand down his own pants, yanking on himself too hard and too dry, glad for what precome he’s built up being hard for so long, not caring that it chafes.

Tony finishes fast — he’s gone well before Steve is done shuddering.

They slump together, an awkward pile on a cold floor, for a long minute.

“You’re cruel,” Steve says eventually, hoarse and spent. “I feel like someone took a cheese grater to my right foot. I’m not sure you didn’t.”

Tony smiles. “Cheese grater would be a completely different sensation. You’d be able to tell.”

Steve grumbles and curls more aggressively into Tony. “Don’t be smart.”

Tony’s legs are falling asleep from the weight of Steve lying across them. He’s got drying jizz in his pants. The next time he looks in the mirror he’s going to be treated to the sight of an impressive, unhideable hickey. He is blindingly, unexpectedly happy.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Because the world is a cold, nasty place, Tony doesn’t get to bask in satisfaction for long. Floor-cuddling lasts about fifteen minutes. Then there’s a nice hour and a half while the serum heals Steve up enough that he can walk again, during which neither of them quite make eye contact or talk about what just happened. After that Steve fucks off, limping a bit, and leaves Tony to do as he will.

Tony starts to wonder if he should have resisted temptation and waited until after Steve had left to jerk himself off. If Steve loses his nerve — Tony won’t like the consequences. It’s Steve’s safety on the line, not just Tony’s dick. 

He knows he should send Steve some reading material. BDSM 101: how to safely get your rocks off when you really like pain. So you think you’re a kinky fucker? 10 tips to be a responsible masochist.

He tries to rationalize not encouraging Steve to read up. If Steve wants to know, he has a functional internet connection and can find resources himself. The easy introductory articles won’t cover the things he and Steve have been doing, and will just muddy the waters. Steve is an adult and making his own choices.

But Tony’s aware that he’s making excuses. Tony’s afraid that if Steve looks directly at what happens in Tony’s workshop, he won’t come back. That’s the real reason.

Steve’s straight. Steve _thinks_ he’s straight. Tony doesn’t know.

If Steve could find a nice lady Domme, he’d go get his pain fix from her. If he looks into it, he’ll learn that’s an option.

Tony’s so fucking selfish.

He hates himself sometimes, and he’s never going to change. He’ll wait a little longer; maybe he’ll get the chance to hurt Steve until he comes a few more times before Steve figures out that it’s been kinky gay sex all along, dick touching or no dick touching.

When Tony’s personal line rings the next evening and Steve’s caller ID flashes across the screen, Tony figures the jig is up anyway. He sighs and answers the phone, bracing himself for the strangest breakup he’s ever had the privilege of receiving.

“Tony?” Steve asks, sounding shaken up, and yep, here it comes. It’s been fun.

“The one and only, sugarplum.”

Steve lets out an unsteady breath. “Are you in the mansion? Can I come talk to you? Not — not in the workshop.”

Oh, great, the strangest breakup ever _in person._ Steve’s chivalrous like that. Tony wonders how many shots he can take before Steve arrives.

“Of course,” Tony says, because what else can he say? He’s not going to deny Steve.

The rest of the phone call is short. Tony agrees to see Steve in the library in about half an hour. It’s somewhat neutral ground, unlikely to have other Ultimates wander in but also not one of Tony’s private spaces.

Tony drinks a quarter of a bottle of whiskey, neat, and buttons his shirt up to the throat.

When Steve walks into the library, Tony’s settled into one of a pair of emerald armchairs, rocks glass within easy reach and filled with an uncouth amount of liquor. Steve sees him and sags in what looks like relief, which is odd, but Tony guesses he must look appropriately non-threatening.

“I didn’t know who else to talk to,” Steve says by way of greeting, and falls heavily into the armchair beside Tony. He rests his elbows on his knees and puts his face in his hands. “I can’t go to Bucky again, and I just — I barely know anyone else.”

This sounds less like a breakup than Tony expected.

“Honey, calm down,” Tony says. “What happened?”

“I talked to Jan,” Steve says miserably. “She’s with Hank again, and he _hit_ her, and I don’t understand, why, why I’m not — not enough and he _is_.”

_Dodged one hard conversation, straight into another,_ Tony thinks. _Neither of us was blessed with easy exes._

“In the words of a hundred drunken, idiot frat boys: bitches be crazy,” Tony says.

Steve laughs bleakly. “Jan’s not crazy. She’s smart, and modern, and has friends who don’t smell like the camphor lotion they use for their arthritis.”

_Unlike me,_ Steve leaves unspoken.

“Steve,” Tony says, urging Steve to look at him with his tone. Tony’s gratified when Steve does. “You’re wonderful.”

_What?_ Tony thinks, as soon as he hears himself. _I should not have said that. I must be drunk. That would be a better excuse if I wasn’t drunk all the damn time. I must have food poisoning. I’m going to be sick._

Steve’s eyes widen and his expression goes deep and unreadable. Then he looks back at his knees and runs a hand down his face, scratching over his pale stubble. “That’s nice of you to say.”

Tony accidentally lets something true slip, and Steve doesn’t believe it. Tony almost has to laugh at the strange mercy of the universe.

Steve’s quiet for a long time. Tony takes a fortifying slug of rye.

“What if she went back to him because it’s the same as me and you?” Steve says eventually. “He hits her and...she likes it.”

Tony slams his tumbler down, harder than he means to. The sound of glass on hardwood makes both Tony and Steve jump. 

“No.” Tony says the word with all the commanding conviction he brings to bear in the boardroom or the battlefield.

Steve’s quiet, shocked still for a moment. Then he finds his voice. “How do you know?”

“Because if I _ever_ strike you in anger, I want you to snap my neck.”

“Christ, Tony, what?”

Tony takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to find a calm place in the storm that’s crashing across the deck of his composure. “I like hurting people,” Tony says. “I listen to you scream and it makes me feel like God, all right? And that’s — it’s dangerous. It’s not _nice._ But I’ll _never_ be Hank. He beat Jan to get what he wanted. To make her less than him. So he could win.” Tony swallows. “That’s abuse. That’s vile. I’d rather be dead than let myself do what Hank did.”

“What if you did? What if you did and I liked it?” Steve asks.

Tony shakes his head. “You wouldn’t. It’s two different things.”

“I liked getting hit in the face with a rifle butt by a man who was trying to kill me,” Steve whispers. “I think I’m wrong inside.”

“You’re not,” Tony says shortly, then tries to soften himself, be comforting. Steve’s out at sea and Tony needs to provide him with nautical charts. “You could have punched him into next week whenever you wanted. You controlled when it stopped — you were always the one with the power.”

Steve presses his lips together.

“There are a lot of people who enjoy the same thing you do,” Tony says, bending to the will of his conscience. “There’s rules. Resources I haven’t told you about.”

“I found those myself. I’m not stupid,” Steve says. “Made me uncomfortable. Stopped reading.” 

“You might feel better if you took another look,” Tony says.

“I don’t want advice from perverts,” Steve states flatly. “You knew what you were doing. You wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.” It’s Tony’s turn to hide his face in one hand, overwhelmed. Nobody should trust him as much as Steve apparently does.

That doesn’t solve how upset Steve is over Jan. Tony thought maybe knowing there was a whole community of kinky bastards out there would make Steve feel better, but of course he took one look at those sex-positive, orgy-having, beautiful degenerates and clammed up like a lesbian at a Bush rally.

“Buttercup, do you think _I’m_ wrong inside?” Tony asks eventually, trying a different tack.

Steve frowns. “I dunno, maybe.” Tony has to stifle a laugh — nobody but Steve would say that to his face. Tony loves that about him.

“But you trust me to take care of you down in my workshop.”

“Yes,” Steve says, like it’s obvious, like he didn’t even have to consider.

Tony scratches his beard and looks to the ceiling for help from the powers on high that he doesn’t believe in. Steve is a goddamn mess — worth it, but a mess. If Tony had a friend dating Steve, Tony’d tell him, _Run, sis, that one’s half a sexuality crisis away from breaking your heart._

“You could trust me now, too,” Tony says carefully.

Steve’s shoulders inch downwards from where they’re bunched up around his ears. “I want to,” Steve says. “Hell, I want to.”

He thinks about it for a long moment.

“What’s the verdict, jumbo shrimp?” Tony asks, when he can’t take the silence any longer. “Give it to me straight.”

Steve raises his eyebrow at the nickname — Tony’ll give him that one, it was a stretch — and his expression finally relaxes.

“Well, you’re real queer, and you told me to break your neck just now — that was weird. But I think you’re alright, Stark. I think we’re alright.”

“You’re something else, Rogers,” Tony says, and this time he does laugh.

Steve manages a lopsided grin. “Bucky’s been telling me that for years. I’ve learned to take it as a compliment.”

“Your friend Mr. Barnes has the right idea. How’s the old man doing these days?” Changing the subject isn’t the bravest thing Tony’s done, but he’s all turned around by the breakup-that-wasn’t and he needs a moment.

“Cranky,” Steve says, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “Says his cancer doc wouldn’t know a lung from a loofa and keeps telling him to stop sneaking smokes.”

Tony laughs. “Give him my number, I’ll set him up with someone he’ll like better.”

“Really?” Steve asks, so surprised and sweet that Tony wonders how long it’s been since someone did something for Steve just to see him happy. Tony’s going to get Bucky the best damn oncologist in New York.

“I single-handedly funded the new oncology ward at Johns Hopkins,” Tony says. “Hospital administrators bend over backwards to kiss my ass in hopes that they’ll be the next Stark beneficiary. I’ve got Bucky covered.”

Steve smiles, and Tony feels like he’s won something big. He can do this. He can play Steve like a vintage pinball machine, high score every time, leaderboard scrolling along saying: _TONY, TONY, TONY._

* * *

One of Tony’s persistent flaws is the way his brain latches onto things and won’t let him focus on anything else until it’s finished. His attention is a barbed arrow: any attempts to take it out the way it came in will only further lacerate the wound.

Currently, Tony’s stuck on Steve. Steve’s skin, Steve’s mouth, Steve’s dick that Tony’s never properly seen — Steve Steve Steve Steve.

This is fine; Tony’s been here before. The suit was like this, back in Iron Man’s infancy. The trick is to lean into it: push the shaft out through-and-through. So Tony has a couple of good, imaginative masturbation sessions, picks a fantasy, and gets to work.

When he’s done a few days later, Tony shoots an email off to Steve:

> _Have something for you in the workshop. You free?_

Steve writes back within the hour.

> _Dear Tony,_
> 
> _I am available tonight beginning at 1800._
> 
> _Sincerely,  
>  \- Steve Rogers_

Tony hopes Steve’s email is absurdly formal because Steve is bad with tone via text and not because he’s unaware that this is a booty call. So far Steve has just shown up whenever he wants a little slap and tickle — mostly slap — but Tony is feeling eager. He hasn’t seen Steve in a while and, honestly, the worst that’ll happen is Steve will be confused and tell him maybe they can try this later.

A brief back and forth secures Steve’s time from about six thirty until Tony is done with him, and all that’s left is the waiting.

When Steve arrives, Tony’s worry that Steve didn’t know the nature of their rendezvous fades pleasantly away. Steve’s spic and span and wearing jeans that Tony’s going to have to peel off. His crisp white button-down actually fits him, which is a miracle, given the breadth of his shoulders and barrel chest. Steve cleans up nice. Tony’s going to do his very best to make a mess of him.

To that end, Tony’s rearranged some of the workshop.

He’s shoved a couple of work tables out of the way and wheeled one of his tall hydraulic hoists into the cleared space. It’s made for lifting car engines and unrefined chunks of Tony’s armor. The thing has more than enough power to keep Steve in his place.

Tony’s also dragged his ratty futon out of hiding and shoved it up against the wall. It looked dingy, spattered with paint and saggy from Tony sleeping on it during fabrication binges, so he’s covered it with pillows, furs, and layers of throw blankets in loud prints. He’s not spending his next post-coital cuddle on hard concrete. _Standards, darling._

“Looks like you have plans,” Steve says, peering around.

“Yep,” Tony says, popping the _p._ He picks up his recent project and dangles it in front of Steve.

It’s a pair of custom suspension cuffs, heavy and serviceable. Tony likes things that look beautiful, but he also likes things that _work_. These are in the second category. They’re made of wide nylon straps, interfaced with kevlar and quilted together with hundred-pound monofilament. Tony had a hell of a time figuring out how to thread his sewing machine with that, but the stitching had turned out nicely.

Steve takes them and turns them over in his hands, flexing the hardware and figuring out how all the buckles go. Tony’s glad he properly welded all the d-rings and went with a thicker gauge of metal than he thought was necessary. Steve’s grip strength is difficult to overestimate — Tony needs to replace that metal bar so he can spraypaint anything heavier than a hex bolt again — and he doesn’t want Steve to have to worry about pulling too hard.

Done examining the cuffs, Steve gives the hoist a significant look. Tactical genius applied to kinky sex: surprise, it’s attractive.

“No shirt, no shoes, pants optional,” Tony says, taking back his bespoke restraints.

Tony sprawls artfully over the gussied up futon to watch Steve strip. He’s curious if Steve will take his invitation to show a bit more skin.

Steve kicks his shoes off, then turns his back and starts unbuttoning his shirt.

“Really?” Tony says archly. Steve looks over his shoulder at Tony, and Tony twirls a lazy finger, motioning for Steve to turn around.

“I want to look at you.” The suggestion is a test, and Tony’s not sure how Steve’s going to react. Tony hasn’t demanded to see before.

Easy as pie, Steve spins to face Tony. He undermines the deference by staring Tony down mulishly as he undoes the front buttons of his shirt. 

“Like this?” Steve demands. It’s clear the good Captain has never heard of demure. Coquettish misses him by a country mile.

“Exactly like that,” Tony purrs.

Steve works his way to the last button and yanks his shirttails free of his pants. Then he undoes the buttons at his cuffs and slides gracefully out of the shirt. For a moment, he holds the garment loosely in one hand, unsure where to put it. It’s too nice for him to drop on the floor, apparently.

Tony leans forward and takes the shirt from Steve. Steve lets it go without protest, and Tony’s presented with a handful of fabric and an eyeful of _Steve_. It doesn’t get old, the chiseled slabs of muscle that make up Steve’s chest, the smooth lines of him, the perfect symmetry that draws the eye to his midline and down past his navel. His skin is pristine, undiscovered country, free of marks or blemishes; it begs for plundering.

Tony brings Steve’s shirt to his nose and breathes deeply, making eye contact with Steve while he takes the scent of him. It’s lovely: clean and masculine, no scented body spray or affected cologne. Steve’s lips part, watching Tony intently. The smell of Steve fills Tony’s sinuses and makes his pulse spike. He’s got a piece of Steve here, and he’ll wring it dry.

Steve holds Tony’s gaze, then hooks his thumbs into his waistband. Tony feels balanced on a high wire, willing Steve to commit, take it off, baby, take it all off. Give Tony more perfect skin to work with.

Steve’s hands inch towards his fly, halting and unsure. He’s breathing hard, and Tony knows he’s not doing this to be a tease. He’s really deciding, right in this moment.

It’s torturous. Steve reaches the top button of his jeans and worries at it, still watching Tony. Tony’s not saying a damn thing. This is Steve’s choice: raise or call.

“You wanna see, huh?” Steve muses, cocking his head to one side and squinting a bit in consideration. “You like to watch everything, even if you’re not involved, because knowing makes you feel powerful. And you like feeling powerful with me. Makes sense.” He rubs his thumb in a circle around the button of his fly like he’s shining up a dull penny.

Tony wets his lips. “Solid analysis, Captain,” he says. The condescending address makes Steve’s fingers twitch.

Steve’s skin shivers with goosebumps, and then he shrugs and lets out a shaky breath. 

With efficient motions, Steve pops open his fly, pulls down the zipper, and pushes the tight jeans down to his thighs. Tony strives to hide the audible response he has to that, and probably succeeds. He’s not a hundred percent on that. Steve’s wearing tight black boxer-briefs that don’t leave a whole lot to the imagination in the front, and Tony imagines they’re equally clingy in the back. When Steve inevitably gets hard, Tony will be able to see every contour of Steve’s dick through the fabric.

Steve skins the rest of the way out of his painted-on jeans, and Tony takes a moment to bask. Peak human, standing in front of him in full technicolor, panting for what’s next.

Then Tony picks up the suspension cuffs and sets them in his lap. “How about we get you into these, hm?”

Steve nods and waits for Tony to get up and buckle the cuffs onto him, but Tony’s comfortable where he is, thank you. Steve can come to him. Tony raises an eyebrow and looks pointedly at the ground before his feet.

The realization of what Tony wants makes Steve’s mouth fall open in a silent oh.

Obediently, he comes over to where Tony’s lounging and stands in front of him, then offers his wrists. Tony could, of course, have Steve sit beside him on the couch to get him into the cuffs. But he suspects that Steve gets off on submission as well as the masochism, and that’s a game he’s delighted to play. Tony tugs Steve’s wrists down to where he can reach them better, forcing Steve into a crouch, then to his knees. Steve’s face goes rosy as he lets Tony direct him to kneel at his feet. 

Tony lays Steve’s wrists in his lap, palms up, and starts with the right-hand cuff. It fits snugly around Steve’s wrist, its straps wrapping up around the heel of Steve’s palm to keep the cuff from cutting into Steve’s flesh when he puts weight on it. Steve keeps his hands relaxed, perfectly pliant while Tony puts the left-hand one on him as well. Tony checks all the buckles and slides two fingers between the cuffs and Steve’s skin, making sure nothing is too tight. Steve watches Tony’s hands on him, blush still high in his cheeks. A few times, Tony catches Steve’s eyes on his crotch before Steve’s attention darts back to the suspension cuffs.

The cuffs look less like bondage gear and more like construction equipment. The bulk of the material is heavy yellow nylon, repurposed from the straps Tony uses for moving engine blocks around. With their new reinforcements and sturdy hardware they’re strong enough to hold Steve even if he struggles.

Satisfied with the fit, Tony leads Steve over to the hoist. 

Tony lifts Steve’s wrists above his head one at a time and affixes them to the ring hanging from the hoist. Steve tugs on them once he’s locked in. When he realizes how well he’s restrained, a high, needy sound escapes his throat.

Steve secured, Tony steps over to the lever of the hydraulic pump. Stroke by stroke, he raises the hoist. Steve’s arms are drawn up, stretched as high as they’ll reach above his head. A breath whooshes out of Steve as Tony pauses. Then he pumps the lever several more times, lifting Steve’s heels off the floor. Steve shifts his weight to his toes as Tony cranks him a few inches higher. When Tony’s finished Steve can still mostly support himself if he stays on his toes, but if he flinches too hard, he’ll lose purchase and have to scramble to get back upright.

Steve’s already panting when Tony returns to face him. The wonderful boxer-briefs reveal that Steve’s getting hard from just the bondage.

Steve’s face tips up to look at the chain that suspends him and his fingers flex against the cuffs. Tony shoves Steve with an open hand against his chest while Steve’s distracted, earning himself a surprised gasp. Steve’s body swings into a taut arc, muscles clenching as his weight slips off his toes and he twists to regain his footing. Tony watches in delight while Steve regains his balance, trembling.

This time, Tony’s readied a narrow-tongued crop and a _rattan_ cane. Improvisation was fun, but tonight Tony gets to be a professional.

“Crop or cane first?” Tony asks, holding both out horizontally between his hands.

Steve struggles to catch his breath, eyes falling half-shut. “I think we both know you can do whatever you want.”

“Yes,” Tony says lowly, “and I want you to tell me if you’d like to be hit with the crop first, or the cane.”

Steve screws his eyes the rest of the way shut, swaying slightly as he decides. “Crop,” he says eventually.

“Good choice,” Tony says, setting the cane aside for later.

Tony runs the loop of the crop down Steve’s spine, from the nape of his neck down to his waistband. Steve breathes out a light _ah,_ and otherwise hangs still. His face is relaxed, serene now that he’s handed the choices over to Tony. There’s nothing he can do now.

With a sharp flick, Tony hits Steve’s shoulderblade. Steve makes a short hum, a muscle in his back twitching as he evaluates the pain. Tony flicks him again, harder. It makes Steve huff and his back tenses slightly.

The next smack is hard enough to get a shallow grunt out of Steve and raise a faint rectangle of red on his skin, which is what Tony wants.

Tony licks over Steve’s back with the leather crop, working up a healthy pink glow from the middle of his back upwards. Steve’s arching into the blows, happy to be struck. 

Once Steve has settled into the rhythm, Tony whips the crop around and cracks Steve in the nipple. Steve jerks in surprise and his arm muscles stand out as he tenses to keep his balance.

Tony warms up Steve’s upper chest the same way he did his back. He’s making a canvas of extra-sensitive skin, over which he’ll lay his design.

Tonight Tony wants to stripe Steve like a candy cane. Steve is right: Tony enjoys watching almost as much as doing. He’s a visual person. Tony likes to see the record of where he’s been on Steve, written in bruises and flushed skin. It’s his signature, his fingerprint, his ledger — it’ll show that Steve gave it up to _Tony Stark_ until it fully heals.

He’s done with the crop. Tony sets it down and picks up a strop of leather.

“You’re going to want to bite this,” he says, and slides the doubled leather between Steve’s teeth. Steve stares at Tony, hazy and doe-eyed. “Don’t want you to chip those pearly whites.”

Steve bites down and Tony draws away to fetch the rattan cane.

“Hold on tight, honey,” Tony says, and hits Steve hard enough to bruise.

The cane strikes Steve with a snap. Steve jerks and lets out a muffled shout, back arching away. He shakes it off with a series of harsh exhales and recenters himself. Tony’s left a red stripe diagonally across Steve’s back. The stripe is actually two lines scribed in parallel — one of the loveliest things about caning is the distinctive marks it leaves.

Tony’s going to turn Steve’s back into a perfect lattice. He’ll lay down the left-to-right lines first: two inches apart, thirty degree incline, from scapula to scapula. Tony’s precise enough with a cane that he could achieve a pattern even finer than what he’s planned, but Steve would have to stay very still, and Tony loves how unsteady he is like this.

Steve grunts and sways with every strike. After four, Tony runs the tip of the cane lightly over the raised welts; Steve hisses and trembles but doesn’t try to get away.

Tony raises five more angry stripes across Steve’s back, and then he’s ready for the criss-crossing lines. He rubs the flat of his palm over the marks he’s made and flushes with triumph. They’re evenly spaced and almost perfectly parallel — craftsmanship very few people other than Tony could achieve. Nobody else is making Steve look like this. This is for _Tony._

The crossing lines are going to hurt more. Tony checks on Steve, circling around to face him. Steve’s head has fallen heavily forward, his hair damp with sweat. Tony cups Steve’s chin and tips his face up. He’s still got Tony’s bit of leather clamped between his teeth, but his neck is loose and he goes wherever Tony tilts him. Tony takes the leather strop away, his thumb stroking over Steve’s soft lower lip as he goes. The leather’s wet with spit and sports impressive teeth marks, dug deep in several places.

“Why’d you stop?” Steve asks when his mouth is free. His brow knits and he continues, “‘M I doing good?” 

Steve leans forward and his hard, covered cock bumps Tony’s hipbone.

“You’re doing amazing, handsome, you’re perfect,” Tony assures Steve, keeping his voice level even when Steve leans harder into Tony and his erection brushes against Tony’s stomach. 

Steve sighs and turns his face into Tony’s palm. He can’t move much, but he’s doing his best to plaster himself to Tony. His dick is a hot line that Tony can feel through his clothes. Tony thinks about abandoning his fancy plans and simply grabbing Steve by the hips and grinding against him until they both come.

“Want a break?” Tony asks, brushing Steve’s hair up off his forehead since he can’t do that for himself.

“No,” Steve scoffs.

Tony chuckles. “Okay, champ. Here’s your bit of leather back, try not to bite through it.”

So far, none of the lines from Tony’s cane have intersected with each other. Now Tony’s going to be hitting some places for a second time.

Tony lines up, eyeballs the angle, and puts a little elbow into his swing.

When the cane comes down, Steve yells through his clenched teeth and thrashes away. He’s caught up short by his chained wrists, loses his footing, and swings back. His hands go tight on the nylon straps of the cuffs, taking his weight as his knees buckle and his toes curl in pain.

Tony hits Steve again while he hangs like that and earns himself a full-throated sob.

“Get up, Captain!” Tony orders, then swats him lightly across the backs of his thighs as an incentive. Steve groans and refuses to stand, so Tony swats him again, less lightly. That encourages Steve to find his feet again.

“Good, now stay just like that,” Tony says lowly. “I’m making you perfect, shhhh, don’t move, let me hit you where I like.”

Steve whimpers and Tony hits him and Steve screams and Tony hits him again until there’s a precise tracery of diamonds sketched across his back in burst blood vessels. Steve spits out the leather he’s bitten most of the way through to gasp open-mouthed. His chest is heaving like he’s been running wind sprints, and Tony’s hard enough to cut glass.

“There,” Tony says, practically purring in satisfaction. “Finished.”

Steve strains in place and rolls his hips. “I didn’t — Tony I _didn’t —_ “

Tony tosses his cane at the futon and embraces Steve from behind, pressing his chest into the perfect mess of Steve’s back. Steve writhes and hisses from just the brush of the fine fabric of Tony’s shirt against his tender skin.

Tony, never one to pass up on an opportunity, slips one hand between them and scrapes his fingernails across Steve’s raw shoulders. Steve’s head falls back, almost clocking Tony in the nose, and he makes a terrible, broken sound that makes Tony’s body sing.

“Please,” Steve says, and rolls his hips back against Tony. Tony’s erection nestles in the dip of Steve’s ass, and he can’t say no to Steve’s body; he scratches over Steve’s sore back again. Steve’s shudder of pain vibrates down Tony’s cock, intoxicating.

“I can’t touch myself without my hands,” Steve gasps, “I need something, you could just — you’re right there, please, _Tony,_ not for long, it’ll only take a second.”

Steve’s _begging._

There isn’t anything Tony can say but yes. He reaches around Steve’s body to splay a hand over Steve’s lower stomach and strokes it soothingly. Steve’s abdominal muscles are a hard plane under his delicate skin, which is slick with sweat and shivers under Tony’s touch. Steve takes a series of shallow breaths and shifts on his toes with a faint click of metal restraints.

Tony’s jerk-off fantasies couldn’t even come _close._ He presses Steve forward with his body, holding him with one hand on his hip and one hand across the front of his pelvis, until Steve’s feet lose purchase and he’s strung up helpless against Tony. Steve’s own weight plasters him to Tony; he’s supported only by his wrists and his back against Tony’s front. Steve gasps as his raw back shifts against Tony’s shirt. Tony’s hips stutter forward at the sound, grinding his dick against Steve’s ass. Steve’s got to be able to feel every inch of that.

With Steve helpless against him, Tony works his fingers lower. He traces the front of Steve’s waistband, drinking in every twitch of Steve’s muscles.

“You’re going to, right?” Steve gasps. He sounds like he might cry if Tony doesn’t touch him. “I don’t need much, I promise, it’ll be fast.”

In response, Tony finds Steve’s dick through the fabric of his boxer-briefs and traces up the length of it.

Steve’s whole body twists up toward Tony’s hand. The noise he makes is gutted. “Thank you,” Steve babbles. “Thank you, don’t stop, please.”

This time, the grind of Tony’s cock against Steve is matched by a roll of Steve’s hips. Tony wants Steve to thank him every damn time he comes, he wants to have Steve this desperate to have his hand every night, _fuck,_ he’s got Captain America strung up in his basement, half-sobbing with pain and need, and Tony is soaring with power.

Steve’s right — he’s so close from having his back caned that it’ll be quick work to get him off. Tony strokes gently over the soft fabric of Steve’s underwear and Steve thrusts hopelessly, held between Tony’s fingers on his cock, Tony’s restraints around his wrists, and Tony’s body at his back.

“Good,” Tony whispers in his ear. “Feel yourself losing control, beautiful. I’ve taken that from you. Don’t make choices, just come for me.”

“Oh — fuck, _fuck,_ ” Steve rasps, then goes silent as he chokes back the sound of orgasm hitting him.

Tony’s not satisfied with quiet. He uses his free hand to pinch Steve’s nipple and twist, using his fingernails. That opens Steve’s throat like a charm. The sounds he makes are garbled yelps and sobs, inarticulate and undignified in pleasure.

Steve lets go, spilling into the front of his underwear, wetting the fabric so it clings to the head of his cock. Tony teases his foreskin, drawing it out, making Steve kick and thrash.

He’s so perfectly obedient Tony could cry. “Good job, soldier,” Tony says roughly as Steve starts to come down. Steve’s heaving for breath, shaking through the aftershocks of what Tony expects was a positively _divine_ orgasm. “You did so well, you bore it all. You’re done.”

Steve whines and lolls loosely against Tony, muscles all spent.

Tony sets Steve back to rights, steadying him until he finds his footing. Then Tony slowly lowers the hoist until Steve’s heels are on the ground again and his arms have a little slack. Steve’s knees buckle and he dangles from the cuffs, head falling loosely forward.

“I’m going to take you down,” Tony tells him. “C’mon honey, you have to stand up a bit.”

Steve looks at him with soft, pleading eyes. His chiseled features have lost their harshness to the daze of pleasure — he looks exhausted. He looks like a dream.

“I know,” Tony says gently. “I know you’re tired. You can do this for me.”

Steve moans and picks himself up on shaky legs, giving Tony the slack he needs to unbuckle him. Tony pulls his hands out of the cuffs one at a time, as gently as he can.

Freed, Steve hangs onto Tony for a moment, then collapses in slow motion. He slides down Tony’s body until he’s kneeling on the floor, leaning on Tony’s legs, face pressed against Tony’s hip.

Tony pets Steve’s hair, acutely aware of how close Steve is to his dick. He imagines he can feel Steve’s breath through his pants.

Steve tips forward a critical fraction and nuzzles, open-mouthed, against Tony’s erection.

Tony holds perfectly still. He hasn’t been this painfully hard since he was sixteen and discovering that porn came in more flavors than just vanilla. He wants Steve’s mouth more than he’s wanted anything in his life. Steve finds Tony’s shaft through the front of his pants and rubs his face against it, inexpert and impossibly sweet.

“Do you want to suck me off, Steve?” Tony asks, breathless even in his own ears.

Steve nods, cheek still pressed against Tony.

Tony undoes his pants with fingers gone unexpectedly clumsy and takes out his dick. Steve kisses the side of it, wet and gentle. Then he drags his parted lips up to the head and takes it carefully into his mouth. His eyebrows pinch together as he sucks a bit, and Tony realizes that Steve probably barely knows what a blowjob is, given the attitudes towards oral sex in the forties. Jan may have gone down on him a couple of times, but that’s got to be the maximum extent of his experience.

“That’s it,” Tony says, touching Steve’s cheek. The inside of Steve’s mouth is hot and slick, but Tony’s disciplined enough not to drive forward. “You’re being so good to me.”

Steve shuts his eyes and lets Tony deeper into his mouth, farther than Tony expected, already pushing his limits. _That’s my Steve_ , Tony thinks with a swell of warmth. _Never does a single thing halfway._

It’s not a skilled blowjob by any means. Steve has no rhythm and seems mostly preoccupied with the challenge of swallowing down as much of Tony as he can rather than applying tongue or suction.

Clumsy, hesitant, and awkward as it is, having Steve’s mouth on him is fantastic. Tony fists the base of his cock with his hand while Steve does his best with the head, and together they build Tony to orgasm.

Tony pulls out before he comes in Steve’s mouth and strokes himself roughly to completion. Steve gazes up at Tony, eyes dark and placid, lips bruised red, as orgasm yanks through Tony. He comes on Steve’s chest, painting over the rosy flesh where he struck Steve with the crop. Steve doesn’t even flinch, just lets Tony’s spend run down his chest in pale streaks.

When he’s finished, Tony wraps a hand around the back of Steve’s neck and pulls him close, admiring the view of Steve on his knees, back livid from Tony’s handiwork, eyes shut peacefully next to Tony’s softening cock.

After Tony has his breath back, he chivvies Steve into sitting down somewhere comfortable. Concrete is hell on the knees, and Steve’s sore enough for one evening. With some well-placed shoves, Tony gets Steve situated comfortably on the futon. Steve is increasingly coordinated, but he allows Tony to quickly wipe him up and wrap him in a throw blanket.

“Want some aloe?” Tony asks, perching on the edge of the futon next to Steve. The real world is slowly coming into focus at the edges of Tony’s mind, his attention widening from exclusively Steve to include a few other things, like the work he’s been putting off the past couple of days, and if he should have anticipated Steve coming in his pants _again_ and brought the poor man a spare pair of boxers.

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t mind being sore. Feels like you.”

If that makes Tony’s stomach flutter with lovey-dovey butterflies, he’s putting it down to post-sex stupid-brain.

“You say the sweetest things, hun,” Tony says, and pats Steve’s knee. 

Steve chuckles and stretches his shoulders, testing his range of motion. “Mind if I shut my eyes for a bit?” Steve asks sleepily.

“Not at all,” Tony says. The post-scene crash is real, and Tony’s glad Steve will be here, safe where Tony can watch him as he naps it off.

Steve falls asleep shockingly fast — Tony supposes that’s a useful skill in a perfect soldier, able to rest anywhere, making the most of any downtime. Tony fetches a laptop and comes back to sit next to Steve, tucking his knees up underneath him and getting comfortable. He wants to be here whenever Steve wakes up.

Steve gave him a blowjob. A fumbling, spectacular blowjob that Tony will remember until the day he dies. Steve must have worked through some of his issues with the gay stuff since he last talked to Tony.

If Tony’s being honest with himself, he’d like another one of those blowjobs — another hundred of them. Maybe third orgasm’s the charm, and now Steve will let Tony keep him. After all, Tony’s the best there is at this, and given his unique physiology, Steve needs someone special. Few sadists could bring to bear the vast array of torments Tony can think up with his genius brain. Fewer still could do it while neatly navigating Steve’s swamp of issues, giving him what he needs without forcing him to confront his fears.

Tony steals a glance at Steve’s sleeping face. He’d daresay they've threaded that needle.


	4. Chapter 4

Over the years, Tony’s learned to pinpoint when his bed partners have woken before they open their eyes. When Steve wakes up from his nap, Tony needs none of that skill. Steve’s body goes from relaxed to stiff as a board in an instant. Combat readiness, Tony supposes. He’s slept with a couple of vets, and they’d get like this too.

“You’re in my workshop,” Tony says gently, in case Steve needs help orienting himself. “It’s not too late; you only slept for about an hour.”

Steve responds by pushing himself upright, breathing fast and shallow. Dread twists in the pit of Tony’s stomach. Something is very wrong.

“What did you do to me?” Steve asks harshly.

Tony’s been working quietly while he left Steve alone to recover, not doing anything special. “Nothing, I just let you rest.”

That’s not the question Steve is asking, and Tony knows it. He’s delaying the blow, stealing a few more moments where everything is fine. 

Steve shoves to his feet, and Tony winces at what that must feel like on his back. Steve just growls under his breath and stalks around the workshop, picking up his clothes from where he left them. When he pulls on his shirt it shocks a grunt of pain out of him, but he grits his teeth and buttons it anyway.

Evidently, Steve has _not_ worked through the issues he has with kinky gay sex, and now Tony’s fucked. Steve’s whole frame is bunched up with self-loathing and fury. 

_Ah. Spooked him,_ echoes a voice in Tony’s head that might be him. _Can’t say I like this outcome very much. Too greedy by far, hm? That’s just like us. We’ve ruined our chance to save him, you know. How many more solo missions do you think it’ll take? I’d say fifteen, at the high end. That’s maybe eleven months, not so bad. We’ll have him for almost a year before he gets killed. Of course, he’ll be too furious to look at us the entire time, but some things can’t be helped._

Steve storms back towards Tony, hunting down an errant sock. 

“Where’s the fire, Steve?” Tony asks lightly.

“You — “ Steve begins, raising an accusing finger, then he breaks off to run a rough hand through his hair. The way that must be twisting the lattice of welts on his back makes Tony’s heart kick in his chest. “I could beat your face in, Stark.”

Tony’s suddenly aware that Steve is a lot larger than him and has a history of winning fights. Hank comes to mind. He shuts the laptop carefully and sets it aside.

“How about we leave my face alone for a moment, and you tell me what’s going on,” Tony says in his most soothing voice. He’d like Steve to break it off non-violently, if possible.

“I’m not a cocksucker,” Steve snarls. “You made me want it, you manipulative snake.”

_Oh, god, no._

“I’d never — you asked, Steve,” Tony says, blood draining from his face. “You seemed so _happy_ — “

Steve’s face is twisted up in shame and anger. “Shut up! You’re the faggot, so it was something you did to me. It had to have been. I’m not like that!”

Steve’s tone makes it very obvious what he thinks of men who are _like that._

“I didn’t know, honestly, I swear,” Tony says, holding his hands out as if he can placate Steve or push him away. “I thought you were with it enough, I thought you knew what you were doing.”

_Did you?_ Tony’s thoughts hiss. _Did you really think he was in control of what he was asking for, or did you just want to get your dick wet?_

He hadn’t asked ahead of time. He’d been overconfident, thought he could orchestrate things so neither of them had to ask directly for what they wanted. _Manipulative._ Steve was right. Tony thought with his dick first and his conscience second, and he made Steve do something he didn’t want.

Steve’s fists are clenched at his sides, and his eyes are wild.

_Please don’t hit me_ , Tony thinks. He might deserve it, but he’s also a coward; Tony doesn’t want to feel the things Steve could do to him.

“I’m never letting you use me like that again,” Steve says, bristling with fury. “I thought you wanted to help, but it was all part of a plan to fuck me, wasn’t it?”

“No,” Tony whispers, but he’s not sure anymore, of course he wanted to fuck Steve, he’s only human and he’s _seen_ Steve’s ass. Tony’s lost track of what he did because he thought Steve would enjoy it and what he did because it revved his own engine.

“This stops tonight, clear?” Steve says. 

Tony nods mutely. He won’t touch Steve again. His heart feels like it’s been ripped out of his chest. This is happening to somebody else. Someone’s blood pressure is dropping. Someone’s extremities are going numb.

Steve’s face is cold. “Good.”

* * *

Tony’s response to pain isn’t complicated. He makes his way to his private smoking lounge on the first floor with only a quick detour to select several bottles of barrel-strength single malt.

Then he settles in to drink his face off.

If he pours enough alcohol down his throat, the litany of self-recrimination inside his head will stop. There are other ways he can get it done — the temptation to go to his medicine cabinet and throw some hardcore painkillers into this evening’s chemical cocktail is strong — but alcohol is Tony’s go-to.

What good has Tony Stark ever done for the world? He’s killed thirty-four people directly: looked at them alive, decided they needed killing, and made them dead. He doesn’t keep a count of Iron Man’s collateral damage. He should. He’s not sure he could stand knowing, so he doesn’t make the tally. It remains a vague figure in his head, a non-number. Many. A lot. Enough to make him a bad man.

Next to all that murder, what’s one blow job he should have said no to?

Tony laughs bitterly to himself. It’s everything.

He thinks again about getting up, going to his bathroom, and taking ten valium. It sounds like an awfully good option.

The thing that stops him isn’t any particular instinct for self-preservation. He just doesn’t want to stand up.

* * *

Jan’s the one who finds Tony in the morning. 

“Jesus, Tony,” she says. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Tony slits one eye open. Jan’s dressed as the Wasp, which means Ultimates business, which means Steve, which means Tony is shutting his eyes and not dealing with it. 

“What do you think happened to me?”

Jan’s tone is sharp with disapproval. “That you got stupid-drunk last night and fell asleep on the couch, and now you’re hungover.”

“Correction,” Tony slurs. “I am still stupid-drunk, and the hangover is yet to come.”

“You’re a disgrace.”

“Duly noted,” Tony sings, being irritating and not giving a single fuck. He can feel the edges of why he got this catastrophically drunk creeping in on him, and it’s terrifying. He’s Iron Man — he fights monsters on the regular — and the most frightening things in his life are his own emotions. That’s funny. Tony snorts because it’s just — it’s fucking hilarious. Area man scared of own head, asks doctor if he can get it amputated.

“Sober up, Stark, we’re going back to Oregon. Event Horizon is trying to punch holes in dams and they’re calling the Ultimates in.”

“Who’s that?” Tony asks, opening his eyes again to squint at Jan.

“I did not volunteer for this,” Jan whispers, and presses her fingertips to her forehead. “Event Horizon is the teleporter we fought.”

“Oh,” Tony says. “Right. Black Hole Girl. Annoying powers, extremist political views, we put all her friends in jail. Cool name, I like it.”

“She’s holding three hydroelectric projects hostage and demanding those friends back,” Jan says.

Tony cannot articulate how much he _does not care_ about hydroelectric projects. Steve is — Tony isn’t thinking about Steve. If he thinks about Steve, he’ll think about Steve’s lips dragging over the front of his pants, and Steve looking up at him with trusting eyes and begging to do exactly what Tony wanted, and how his face had gone brutal and hard afterwards because Tony’s a vile man and everyone finds that out eventually.

“Dams are bad for salmon,” Tony says. 

“You’re infuriating. I’m calling Steve in, he can deal with your sloshed ass.”

Tony sits up so fast his brain threatens to roll out of his skull. “Don’t you _dare,_ ” he snarls.

Jan takes a hasty step backwards. Tony has the perverse desire to tell her how close she came to walking in on a dead body this morning. That would have been a lot less fun than this conversation.

“You don’t want me in the field, I’m seeing in triplicate,” Tony says. “She’s one pissed off mutant. We have a thunder god. How hard can it be?”

Jan throws her hands in the air. “Fine. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I’m sick of it being my problem.”

“Toodles,” Tony says pointedly, and waggles his fingers at her as she walks out of the room.

* * *

Tony’s hangover, when it comes, is savage. He throws up, a lot. At least he’s used to kneeling before the porcelain throne. He’s even purchased a special padded mat so he doesn’t bruise his knees on the tile.

The mansion is quiet, and Tony takes advantage of everyone else jetting off to Oregon and pisses with the bathroom door open. 

He’s actually pretty impressed with himself: he makes it all the way to his three pm breakfast of dry toast and scrambled egg whites before it all really hits him again. The vomiting and teeth-brushing and vomiting again had kept his brain admirably occupied. But between one tasteless bite of unbuttered toast and another, all the feeling comes back.

Tony has enough time to put down his fork and think _this is about to be bad_ before the black tide rushes in.

It’s a good cry. Really pathetic. Tony hunches over his breakfast plate and sobs so hard his stomach muscles cramp up. Tears run down his nose and drip on his eggs, which were rubbery and need the extra salt anyway. Tony’s a garbage cook, but the new Jarvis is off today, which means Tony is eating bad eggs and crying as loud as he wants to.

He doesn’t deserve to cry. Tony’s the despicable one. The person who violates their partner doesn’t get to be the one who’s upset.

Tony knew Steve was going to freak out eventually. There was no way Mr. Wholesome Americana was going to keep having kinky gay sex without it all going sideways. Despite knowing that, Tony didn’t start slow. He didn’t talk Steve through what to expect, he just threw Steve into the deep end and had his way with him, trusting that Steve would be stubborn and desperate enough to plow forward without asking questions.

God, he’d told Steve it was _stress relief_. As if he hadn’t known it was about sex the entire fucking time, whether or not he touched Steve with his hands.

Now Steve’s out in the field, in who knows what kind of headspace, taking hits he could dodge.

Tony throws his breakfast into the garbage, plate and all. He can buy more plates. Then  
he stumbles upstairs to his bedroom where he can at least sob into a pillow. He catches a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror as he goes. He looks _awful_. Red eyes, puffy everywhere, no color in his lips or cheeks. At least his inside matches his outside.

The bedroom is light and airy, the opposite of how Tony feels. He draws all the blinds to cut out the headache-inducing glare and that helps some. Then he settles in for several hours of feeling awful.

It’s dusk by the time Tony hears the team return. He ignores them; he’s busy being miserable.

The sound of an argument drifts up through the floor, words angry but indistinct. Then someone stomps up the stairs. From the weight of their footsteps, it’s either Steve or Thor, storming off to bed. He would speculate what the fight was about, but Tony doesn’t care.

The angry footsteps stop in front of Tony’s door, and then whoever it was knocks loudly.

“Are you hiding in there, Stark?” 

Steve’s voice.

Tony doesn’t answer. Steve shoulders the door open anyway.

Steve’s face is stony, even in the dim room. The first thing Tony does is scan him for damage: no blood, no splints, no missing bits. Steve’s okay. The team looked after him.

It should fill Tony with relief. Instead he feels backed into a corner, hackles up and teeth bared. All the needles of self-loathing Tony’s been torturing himself with turn outwards, glistening with poison. If Steve comes any closer he’ll be impaled.

“Here to call me a faggot again?” Tony rasps. His voice is a mess from crying for hours.

Steve crosses his arms over his broad chest and scowls. “We need to have a discussion about your combat-readiness. The Ultimates can’t have you incapacitating yourself when we might need Iron Man on a mission. You’re going to stop lounging around and join the rest of the team for a debrief.”

Tony folds the duvet back and reaches over to click on the lamp by his nightstand. The light only makes him squint a little, which is an improvement over a few hours ago. He wipes the skin under his eyes with his fingertips, then sits up against the headboard.

Steve looks at Tony’s face and utters a small, hurt sound. He takes a few, halting steps farther into the room. Tony flinches backwards despite himself — Steve stops.

Tony coughs, setting his throat back to rights. “I am _indisposed_ ,” he says archly. It’s a brittle mask, but it’s all he has.

“Tony — “

“Don’t say you _lost_ without me,” Tony says. His stomach is sizzling with acid and he doesn’t know how long he can keep this up. “It’s one girl with zero resources.”

“She knew the terrain,” Steve says defensively.

“Really? _She knew the terrain?_ ” Tony echoes with a sneer. “Sounds like a poor showing on your part.”

“If you hadn’t been — “

“If I hadn’t been _what,_ Steve?” Tony interrupts, kicking the covers back and throwing himself to his feet. “A drunk? A fag? A pervert? Which of my sins do you think you can scold away?”

Tony traipses across the room to his vanity and rifles through the concealer and cologne with shaking fingers. In the mirror, Tony’s eyes are still red from crying. Self-hatred slithers under his skin as he finds what he needs: a femmy crystal bottle of perfume. He wants Steve to _go away_. Nobody gets redeemed here. If Steve knows what’s best for him, he never comes back. Tony’s happy to facilitate that.

“Do you know what I am, Steve?” he hisses. Tony turns on Steve, sculpting his face into a disaffected moue. Then he sprays Curious by Brittany Spears into the air and sashays through the floral scent, dangerous and fey.

Steve backpedals until his back hits the doorframe.

“Don’t, Tony,” Steve says, low and firm.

“I’m a vile, dangerous man,” Tony says, still advancing. “And you should be afraid of me.”

Steve squares his stance and puts out a hand like he can keep Tony from being himself with a shove. If it was as easy as that, Tony would have stopped being Antonio Edward Stark a long, long time ago. Tony halts just out of reach and cocks one hip, as flamboyant as he can manage when he looks like ass and feels like watery shit.

“You need to take better care of yourself. For the team,” Steve says, voice rising. “We can’t do this without you. You’re going to dry out, straighten up, and pull your goddamn weight.”

“No,” Tony says, dripping venom. Here’s his chance to ruin it all. If Steve leaves for good, Tony can’t injure him. “ _You_ need to take care of yourself. Or did you forget the inciting incident of this little charade, Captain?”

Steve’s whole body flinches away, and Tony’s heart snarls with triumph and despair. He’d thought they’d found a safer way to scratch Steve’s battlefield itch. Now Tony knows it wasn’t safe at all. Not with himself in the room.

“Go fix your botched mission,” Tony says bitterly. “We’re done here.”

* * *

Tony’s woken from fitful, headache-laden sleep a handful of hours later. The clock informs him that it’s not much past four in the morning. He has a half-memory of sound; whatever startled him awake had been loud. Tony holds still, listening: there’s a clatter of falling objects, metal on porcelain, and a muffled yelp of pain. Hall bathroom. Someone hurt.

Well, he’s not getting back to sleep while he wonders who’s going bump in the night. Tony groans and rolls out of bed, then wraps himself up in a soft dressing gown. He’s going to need so much coffee — Irish coffee. Very Irish. Something thuds down the hall, like a body hitting a wall. Tony sometimes wishes his life hadn’t taken a path that led to knowing the sounds of bodies striking different solid objects.

As insurance, Tony snags the handgun from his dresser. It’s not loaded, obviously — Tony’s not stupid, he keeps his bullets locked up separate from his firearms for a couple of reasons — but it’ll give any possible intruders pause.

Tony pads out the door and into the hallway, pistol-first.

Steve’s slumped heavily against the hall’s bookshelf, a bath towel pressed to his chest, stained darkly with blood.

“Steve!” Tony cries, the name coming out tight and high. He drops the gun and rushes forward to steady Steve. Tony takes back every acid-laced word from their argument; he needs Steve to let him help, because Steve has to be okay.

Steve looks at Tony with wide, panicked eyes.

“I fucked up, Tony,” he pants. “I’m sorry, I — God, it hurts.”

Tony’s hands are splayed across Steve’s chest, propping him up, and there’s blood under his fingers. Steve doesn’t sound like this, like he’s afraid his body is broken: it’s like an unbalanced equation, out of line with Tony’s model of the world. If Tony looks at Steve’s ashen face for any longer, he’s going to fall apart. He needs a plan.

First, get Steve somewhere he can sit down. Then Tony will take the ratty towel away from Steve to see what’s bleeding. Stabilize, triage, don’t freak out. Sure, Tony’s never seen Steve in this much pain — injury pain, bad pain, nothing like play — and usually Steve brushes off physical hits like a junior high school girl rebuffing this week’s social pariah — but Tony’s thinking in ordered lists of actions and outcomes, not spiralling uselessly. Steve will heal and Tony won’t lose his cool and hopefully there won’t be a trip to the hospital. Tony despises hospitals, but he’ll do it if he has to. He’s not leaving Steve alone like this.

Thankfully, Steve’s guest bedroom is close. Tony gets a shoulder under Steve’s arm to help him make it there. As Tony takes Steve’s weight, he feels damp spots spreading on his dressing gown, and Steve’s breath goes strained. How many wounds does Steve have under his uniform?

Tony deposits Steve on the bed and Steve groans, clutching his bloody towel to his chest.

Whatever it is is obscured by the top of Steve’s uniform. There’s no way all that leather and kevlar is going over Steve’s head with his chest bleeding from multiple unspecified injuries, so Tony hurries to the bathroom to get the heavy-duty medical scissors, grabbing gauze as an afterthought.

Steve is sitting stiff on the edge of the bed when Tony returns, staring blankly into the middle distance. Tony’s going to have to cut off Steve’s uniform so he can evaluate how badly Steve is hurt. It’s not until he’s got the blunt-nosed scissors poised at Steve’s collar that he realizes he’s about to take off Steve’s shirt, and Steve might get the wrong idea. He’d been so focused on putting Steve back to rights that he’d forgotten the horrible events of the past forty-eight hours.

“I’m not coming on to you,” Tony says, words almost tripping over each other. “I have to know if I need to call 911, and I can’t see with your uniform in the way. We don’t have a choice, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Steve gasps.

Tony slips the scissors under Steve’s collar and tries not to jostle his chest. Steve groans and leans his head against Tony. “Shhh, shhh,” Tony says, sawing at the heavy fabric. The uniform is thick, difficult to cut, and Tony wants to know why Steve is in body armor at four in the morning. 

The farther Tony gets, the more sticky blood he can feel under his fingers as he peels back the fabric. He cuts straight down the middle first, then splits Steve’s sleeves as well so the fabric can fully fall away.

Steve looks down at himself and grunts. Tony hisses through his teeth.

Steve’s chest looks like someone took a melon baller to it. Circular wounds spatter across his chest from the fourth rib down to his stomach. They range in diameter from about half a centimeter to the size of a walnut. They’re of varying depths, from shallow almost-scrapes to a big nasty one that Tony’s surprised isn’t revealing bone.

Hospital it is, then: Steve needs about an acre of stitches. Tony casts around for a telephone, but Steve’s hand closes around his wrist. “It’ll heal,” Steve says. “Won’t even scar.”

“Honey, your chest is swiss cheese.”

“Superficial. Clean wounds,” Steve rasps. 

Now that he’s sitting down, Steve’s returning to his usual stoic self. Tony’s heart slows from its headlong bolt into an exhausted, shivering trot. It’s true that most of the blood on Steve is already old, and Tony can see pink granulation tissue on the borders of the shallower circles.

“What the hell made these?” Tony asks, marveling at the gory perfection of Steve’s injuries. Cookie cutter sharks do a similar thing to cetaceans: their circular jaws bite out little pucks of flesh, leaving behind polka-dot dolphin-acne.

“Event Horizon’s gravity bursts can spatter,” Steve says. He coughs, then makes a face of regret as that jostles his chest. “Like birdshot.”

Tony sucks his teeth. He remembers watching the non-scatter version of those bolts make a hole the size of a pomelo. The amount of damage that could have been done — it’s bad to imagine. Tony presses his palm against Steve’s sternum, ostensibly to hold him still, but really just to feel the muscle and bone solid under his skin, not crushed into nothing by Event Horizon’s freaky mutant powers. Sometimes, in the depths of maudlin, Tony wonders if the inside of his chest is a hollowed-out void that he’s trying and failing to fill with sex, liquor and fame. Thinking of Steve’s actual organs cored out of his real chest makes the metaphor feel less poetic.

Tony portions out gauze and presses squares of it to the places on Steve’s chest that are still actively bleeding. He positions Steve’s hand over them so that Steve can keep pressure on the wounds himself.

“Shield kept it out of my face,” Steve says. “Not fast enough to block the rest.”

If this had happened to Steve’s _face_ — Tony shudders. One of the things he does to soothe his conscience when the Ultimates cause explosions or fires that injure civilians is to visit the burn wards afterwards. It’s the faces and the hands that are the worst. Tony pays for medical bills and the kinds of plastic surgery that insurance won’t cover and it’s still not enough.

Something tickles Tony’s brain. “Event Horizon? But these are too fresh to be from yesterday morning.” He’s certain that Steve hadn’t been hole-punched half to death during their spat the night previous. He’d checked.

“I went back out,” Steve says, voice grinding like gravel.

_Go fix your botched mission._

“No,” Tony whispers, feeling the warmth drain from his face.

Steve shrugs by tipping his head to the side, keeping his holey chest still. “Needed to fight something,” he grunts. “Event Horizon was closest. Needed something to hurt.”

A person without the inside scoop Tony was privy to might have misinterpreted his last sentence. Steve didn’t go out looking for something to slake his bloodlust on. He wanted something that would hurt _him._ Tony failed him, and Steve went back to what had worked before.

Before Tony can say anything, Steve goes on. “Didn’t help.”

Jesus, Tony’s so tired.

On Steve’s chest there’s black bruising speckled around the open wounds. Tony thinks that some of the bolt’s holes ended up under Steve’s skin. When he touches one, it’s taut like a blister.

“In the morning I can make a few calls,” Tony says. “I know some women who do good stuff with pain. We’ll set you up with a nice lady who’ll write you up a very specific sort of contract and then whip the living daylights out of you.”

_Your choice won’t be me or the battlefield. This way you’ll be safe from both._

It’s what Tony should have done from the start.

Steve hangs his head. He’s still panting a bit, but there’s less rigid terror in his muscles, his body’s animal fear of agony fading into exhaustion. “Is that what you want?” he asks.

The question doesn’t make sense — what Tony wants is immaterial here. Maybe he misheard; Steve’s voice is faintly slurred with pain and Tony can’t see his mouth to lipread.

“What I want?” Tony echoes.

“I’ve really torn it, haven’t I?” Steve rasps.

“No, Steve, you’re fine,” Tony says. He sighs. “We’ll get you sorted out, one step at a time.”

Steve nods wearily, and the bed creaks as he moves to stand. “I need surgical tape to hold these,” he says, gesturing at the white squares of gauze he’s still holding to his chest.

“Hey, hey, don’t,” Tony says, shooing Steve back to a seated position. “I’ll fetch some.”

“I flew a helicopter for the better part of two hours like this, you know.”

“Of course you did,” Tony says, shaking his head and smiling. He realizes with some horror that he can’t push the affection back. He’ll punish himself for it later. Tears prick in his eyes, the same sort that are brought on by nostalgia for somewhere that only existed in the eyes of his childhood self. It’s sweet enough to make his salivary glands burn, this helpless, misplaced fondness.

“You don’t have to do all this,” Steve says, before Tony can go to the bathroom for more first aid supplies. “I appreciate that you’re trying not to be angry with me ‘cause my chest’s carved up like a Christmas turkey, but I get it. You’re not obligated to patch up somebody who hurt you. I can get by on my own.”

Tony blinks. “You didn’t hurt me, Steve.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth lifts in a bleak grin, then falls. “So it was some other fella who had you drunk and sobbing all yesterday?”

“That was my fault,” Tony says. “You weren’t supposed to see me like that.”

Steve breathes out audibly through his nose. “Did some thinking in that helicopter, you know. Realized I’d been real stupid, for one. And I figured I should apologize, see if I can set us to rights. If not — then I guess I’ll go to one of your ladies with the contracts.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Tony says, feeling like a broken record.

“I called you a faggot, for starters.”

“I made you suck my cock, Steve, when you only thought you wanted it because I’d hit you until you were high off your tits. I think a little name-calling pales in comparison.”

It feels almost freeing to admit it. Saying it out loud cements the crime in a horrible way, but Steve knows now that Tony understands, and he won’t have to worry about it again. The boil is lanced — now all the consequences can pour out, hot and putrid over his skin.

Steve lifts a hand to push on one of the smaller holes in his chest, then grimaces. Tony wants to tell him not to do that, but it’s not the moment. Steve chews the inside of his cheek — Tony can tell because it makes his cheekbone stand out, perfectly sculpted and devastating.

Trust Tony to find Steve attractive even while their relationship goes down the fucking drain. He makes himself sick.

Steve breathes in to speak, stops, and licks his lips.

“Actually, it was great. Really great,” Steve says eventually.

Silence rings in Tony’s ears.

“You didn’t make me do shit. I just finally gave in,” Steve continues roughly. “Liking what we do scares the tar out of me, so I told myself it was something you’d done to me, and not another fucked up thing inside me. And then I got mad. Bucky always told me I had a hell of a temper.”

“Huh,” Tony says intelligently, and then falls butt-first onto Steve’s bed next to him. “Huh.”

Steve stares at the edge of the rug like the fringe personally offended his mother. He huffs out a breath and says, “So, give it to me straight: are you still in?”

Tony’s brain is moving so slowly he can see every logical step he takes in painful detail. Steve thinks _Tony_ is the injured party here. Because Steve lied about not wanting to blow Tony, which means Steve would enjoy blowing Tony again _right now_ , or maybe not right-right now while he’s covered in gory pockmarks, but in the general present and future tense, yes.

Running parallel to those thoughts is a quieter mantra of _not my fault, not my fault, not my fault._

“You’re asking if I still want to tie you up and hit you until you’re sobbing and coming in your pants?”

A blush rises on Steve’s face. “More or less,” he says. When Steve blushes, it doesn’t just pink the apples of his cheeks. He goes red in a broad rectangle from jaw to cheekbone. It’s absurdly charming.

“And in this arrangement you’re imagining, do you freak out every time I touch your cock?” Tony asks. His heart’s in his mouth, his whole body taut and thrumming like a struck piano wire.

“No,” Steve says, still blushing. “I imagine I’d be asking _for_ that, if I’m being honest.”

All the tension in Tony gives way at once with a snap. It’s sex and they both know it and that’s okay. Tony gets to keep hitting Steve; there won’t be a repeat of this gory night. Steve will be safe. That’s what matters, not the bubbling hope in Tony’s stomach.

He’s suddenly exhausted, and yet he feels like he might break into the giggles if he’s not careful.

“I can’t say no to that,” Tony breathes.

Steve meets Tony’s eyes, pupils wider than even the dimly lit bedroom merits. He hesitates, then leans fractionally toward Tony. Tony thinks stupidly that Steve might be about to kiss him. Then Steve licks his lips and his eyes dart to the half-open door.

“I need to patch this up properly,” Steve says hurriedly, looking at his chest. “I’ll be fine from here, if you want to go back to sleep.”

“It’s got to be at least five by now,” Tony says. “Sleep is a lost cause. I’m happy to play nurse.”

Steve gives him a look that says he knows Tony’s making a joke at his expense, even if he doesn’t understand what the slang means. Tony leaves to gather an armful of first-aid supplies, and comes back to Steve lying flat on his back clad only in boxers, the tattered remains of his uniform stripped off and lying in a pile on the floor. His eyes are closed, and Tony thinks he might be asleep until Steve turns his head.

“I was thinking some of those deeper ones might need to be packed,” Tony says, setting down his pile of bandages on the bed by Steve’s knees.

To Tony’s horror, Steve folds back the gauze and sticks his finger into the nastiest hole in his chest. “‘S not that deep,” he says. “Only to the first knuckle or so.”

“I’m going to be sick,” Tony says. “Remove that, don’t — gross, Steve.”

Steve wipes his finger on top of the gauze as he puts it back. “All they need is a dressing to keep ‘em from getting grit in there.”

“Can do,” Tony says, and gets to work.

Aside from some grumbling, Steve’s a good patient. He doesn’t flinch away, even when Tony has to flush out the worst of the wounds with saline solution. Tony takes his time, fingers brushing Steve’s bare skin more than is strictly necessary. By the time he’s got the worst of it covered up in clean, secure gauze, Steve’s mostly relaxed.

Tony strokes Steve’s chest, above where the bandaging starts. Steve sighs.

“Get up, peaches, you’ve bled all over the quilt.”

Steve winces his way to his feet, and Tony ducks under his arm to steady him. Tony considers where to put Steve down while he fetches new blankets from the linen closet, but then he has a better idea.

“We’re going across the hall,” Tony says.

“What’s across the hall?” Steve asks tiredly.

“My bedroom, including my bed with its nice, non-bloody sheets.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “Good plan.”

They hobble gingerly across the hall, skirting around the unloaded pistol Tony dropped earlier. Then Tony sets Steve down on his bed. He bullies Steve into letting him check all the bandaging again to make sure it hadn’t come loose on the journey. Steve complains until Tony runs his finger delicately around the edge of the gauze just below Steve’s left pectoral muscle, his nail grazing millimeters from Steve’s areola. Then he submits beautifully until Tony’s satisfied.

Tony brushes Steve’s hair out of his face, then runs his fingers through it a few more times for good measure. Steve shuts his eyes and sighs.

Steve situated, Tony has to decide what happens next. Reality has turned itself upside down too many times in the past forty-eight hours for Tony’s liking. He wants to curl up in bed next to Steve and indulge in a late morning together, but this second chance still feels too fragile. Tony’s mind’s taken in that Steve doesn’t look at him and think _predator_ , but his gut’s lagging behind. He settles for stroking Steve’s hair a while longer. It’s a good look on him — mostly naked, conked out in Tony’s bed — and Tony realizes with a start that he gets to keep sleeping with this man.

Tony fetches his laptop and goes to sit in the armchair where he can get some work done and fantasize about doing terrible things to Steve. If Steve’s going to continue coming to Tony for kinky sex, Tony’s going to make sure it’s worth his while. By the end of the month Steve will be so sated he won’t even want to eat spicy food: Tony’s going to see to it.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

Steve’s chest takes about a week to go from a trypophobe’s worst nightmare to merely tender scarring. Seven days have never tested Tony’s patience so much. Steve’s obviously jonesing too — he gets increasingly grouchy in meetings, and Tony gets a bill from Steve’s ratty boxing gym for several pieces of broken equipment. Still, no matter how vexing the wait, Tony’s not doing anything to Steve while he’s all scabby and breakable.

To make up for it, Tony’s preparing something he thinks Steve will really like. The villain thing gave Tony an idea. He expects that the resistance part is doing it for Steve too; all that pushy back and forth, testing himself. The danger. Roleplay isn’t exactly Tony’s thing, but Tony needs to find some way to be a better experience than fighting a genuine bad guy. With Steve it should be fun. Any time he gets to hurt Steve is fun.

Steve catches Tony by the wrist after Sunday brunch with the team before he can swan off back to the workshop. “No more scabs,” he says, low and conspiratorial.

“Oh?” Tony lays a hand on Steve’s ribs, feeling with his thumb where the worst one had been. There’s still a bit of roughness under the fabric. Tony pouts at Steve, betrayed.

Steve rolls his eyes. “One scab.”

“Tired of waiting, hm?”

“Very.”

Honestly, it’s good enough for Tony. The way Steve’s breath has gone uneven just from Tony’s hand on his chest is beyond tempting. Tony moves his thumb up just a fraction and rubs deliberately over Steve’s nipple. Steve gasps and fists his hands at his sides.

“We’re in public,” Steve grits out.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “We’re in my dining room, Captain. Who could see us? The housekeeping staff? That security camera in the corner? Anyone on the team who forgot their gear and walked right through that open door there?”

Tony brushes over Steve’s nipple again, then pinches it through his shirt and tugs. “You can step away any time you like,” he whispers.

Steve whines helplessly. Apparently he has an exhibition thing — Tony files that away for later.

“Do you want me to play with the other one too? Nice and symmetrical that way.” Tony rolls Steve’s nipple between his thumb and forefinger as he asks, just hard enough to send a little kick of pain through Steve.

Steve’s eyes flick to the doorway, then he nods with a tight jerk of his chin. Tony feels a small glow of satisfaction. He squeezes the nipple he has tight enough to make Steve rock forward on his toes, then lets go.

“Ah — “ Steve says, following Tony’s hand and getting nothing.

“Just because you want it doesn’t mean you get it. For more, you’ll have to come to the wine cellar at nine o’clock,” Tony says slyly.

“You’re cruel,” Steve complains.

Tony flicks Steve’s peaked nipple with a vicious fingernail and grins. “You have no idea.”

* * *

The wine cellar is cool, verging on uncomfortable. Tony’s wearing a smoking jacket and leather gloves to ward off the chill. The gloves hide a few heavy gold rings — it’s the details, he thinks, that really make this sort of thing tick.

Tony’s brought in a metal chair and bolted it to the floor. A length of hemp rope sits innocuously on the seat. It won’t hold Steve particularly securely, but Tony wants him to be able to get out of this one if he wants to. He’s placed an intimidating array of objects on an upturned wine cask: a bucket of ice-cold water, cattle prod, a bottle of vinegar, a lighter, a cigar trimmer, and a pile of foil-wrapped surgical scalpels.

Stashed behind a rack of Argentinian Malbec he has a pile of soft blankets, shears, Gatorade, and protein bars. Just in case things go south — not that he expects them to — it just doesn’t hurt to be careful.

Steve pokes his head in and blinks as he takes in Tony, the chair, and the set of things Tony’s prepared.

“This is different,” Steve says cautiously.

Tony walks around to stand behind the chair. He leans his elbows on the back of it and steeples his fingers. “I thought we could play a game,” he says smoothly. “I tie you to the chair and try to make you talk.”

“And I?”

“You try not to talk.”

Steve bites his lip and considers the pile of implements on the wine cask. Some of them are there just to scare him — Tony isn’t planning on cutting into Steve, and he has no idea what he’d do with the vinegar. Honestly, the cigar cutter and the lighter are mostly there in case he wants to break into the humidor for a smoke while he lets Steve sit and stew.

“Not really the setup for a casual conversation between friends,” Steve says eventually.

“For the next couple hours, I won’t be your friend,” Tony purrs. Steve adjusts the front of his pants and coughs awkwardly into his fist. Tony was right — he has a direct line to Steve’s libido here. Steve will like it, Tony tells himself firmly. Of course Steve will like it. That’s not in question.

“No real secrets,” Steve stipulates.

“All I want to know is who’s giving orders to a meathead like you,” Tony says. “You want it to stop, answer my questions.”

Steve walks over to the chair, picks up the hemp rope, and offers it to Tony. Tony takes it and unwinds it carefully, circling around to the front of the chair. He pushes on Steve’s chest with two fingers. Steve steps backwards until the backs of his knees hit the chair, and when Tony keeps up the pressure on his sternum, Steve collapses obediently into his seat.

Having Steve sitting below him, knees spread and dick obvious in his pants, does a lot for Tony. He takes the opportunity to stroke Steve’s cheek with gloved fingers, relishing the contrast between pale skin and dark, supple leather. Steve’s mouth falls softly open and he shifts in the uncomfortable chair. Tony runs a fingertip over Steve’s bottom lip, enjoying how that makes Steve’s eyes glaze over. Tony wonders if he could get away with fucking Steve’s mouth with his fingers, make Steve choke on the taste of expensive leather. Not within the scope of the game, Tony reminds himself. Too close to a blowjob right now. 

“Tie me up already,” Steve demands. Tony raises an eyebrow — pushy much? — and Steve looks mildly abashed. 

“Say please.” 

Steve blushes, and Tony loves him like this, trapped between what he wants and having to ask for it. “Please tie me to the damn chair so we can get started,” he says. 

“My pleasure,” Tony says. 

Tony secures Steve’s hands first, binding his wrists together and then attaching them securely to the back of the chair. Next he knocks Steve’s legs further apart and ties his ankles one at a time to the back legs of the chair. 

Finished, Tony rises. He leans forward over Steve and fits one hand around Steve’s neck, pressing up against Steve’s jaw. “Struggle,” he orders. “And don’t you dare break my ropes.”

Steve tests his bonds, twisting his shoulders, arching out of his seat, flexing his thighs. Tony keeps his grip on Steve’s throat as he strains. His heart races as Steve settles back, panting. Freedom of motion within acceptable bounds. Time for the next stage. 

Tony takes a deep breath and shoves Steve away, then stalks out of Steve’s sight. He’s got to make this good. Be exciting, be dangerous. Fill this void for Steve. He paces for a couple of long minutes. Long enough for Steve to realize that the man who returns isn’t going to be friendly. 

When Tony comes back, he’s schooled his face into perfect coldness. 

He walks over to the upturned wine cask and makes a show of examining his options, picking things up, putting them down, arranging them just so. 

Without turning to look at Steve, Tony says, “You comfortable, Captain? Anything you need?”

“You could let me go?” Steve says, a little hesitant, testing the boundaries of the fantasy. Acting is tough. It’ll be easier for him when Tony is hurting him and all he can think about is resisting the urge to make it stop. Tony presses his lips together. They’ll get to that part soon. 

“Hah, no,” Tony replies.

“Then I want an XBox,” Steve says stubbornly. Tony has to suppress an urge to laugh and break character. Yesterday Steve had asked Clint what an XBox _was_ , then grumbled and said if he wanted to play games a deck of cards was cheaper. 

“Tell me who you work for, and I’ll give you an XBox, a PlayStation, a Game Cube and a set of checkers for good measure,” Tony says.

“No.”

“Wrong answer,” Tony says silkily. “Want to change that before I have to do something I’ll regret?”

Steve snorts. “Going to cut me up?”

“Oh, I think we can do better than that,” Tony says. “Last chance to do this the easy way — who’s pulling your strings?”

Silence. Tony checks out of the corner of his eye and sees that Steve’s still wickedly hard in his pants, and he’s staring at Tony with naked entreaty. It’s going okay. Steve is happy. He’s flushed with anticipation, practically wiggling in his chair.

“Answer me, Steve,” Tony says, low and dangerous.

“Fuck you.”

“Pity,” Tony says, then picks up the bucket of ice water.

It’s a simple metal pail, of the size for chilling champagne tableside. Droplets of condensation bead on its sides. Steve realizes what Tony’s about to do a few seconds before he does it, and he thrashes, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t,” he whispers, “please, you _wouldn’t_.”

Tony’s heart lurches, but it’s too late, he’s committed, he’s promised Steve he’ll be ruthless. “Should have listened, Captain,” he says.

Then he sluices ice water over Steve, soaking him from face to thighs. Steve shouts as the water hits him, jerking at the shock and the cold. He shakes his head, flinging drops of water everywhere, and shudders. Steve’s shirt is plastered to his chest, and freezing water drips out of his hair into his eyes.

There’s ice on the chair between his thighs. It must be torturously frigid, melting right against Steve’s balls. He lifts out of his seat to escape, but he has to sit eventually, and when he does it’s directly into a pool of ice-cold water. Steve hisses as it kills his erection.

“Hemp rope shrinks when wet,” Tony tells Steve. It’s a struggle to keep his voice even and conversational. “Feel the water dripping down your shoulders? Down to your wrists? The longer you hold out on me, the tighter it gets.”

Steve grits his teeth and stares Tony down. His chest is heaving, and goosebumps have risen at the base of his throat.

The room is cooled to an even fifty-five degrees to keep Tony’s wine at an optimal temperature. In Tony’s smoking jacket and gloves, it’s very comfortable. For Steve, drenched and already shivering, it’s going to be hell. A chill runs down Tony’s spine in sympathy. He feels clammy. Torturers don’t get clammy, that’s ridiculous. And it’s fine, it’s not torture, it’s interrogation, like that’s different — not that it matters, this is fake, this is Steve, Tony’s doing this for Steve and he has to keep it together. How is this any different from when he tortures Steve with a flogger or a cane? He likes watching Steve suffer, he’s been jerking off twice a day this week thinking about Steve shouting in pain. He’s having fun.

Tony turns away so Steve can’t see his face and walks over to the wine cask. He rests both hands on it and takes a steadying breath. Hopefully this looks like he’s playing up being annoyed, frustrated at Steve’s defiance.

“That all you got? A little cold? I was encased in ice for half a century, you have to do better than that,” Steve calls from behind him. God, Steve must be loving it if he’s already trying to goad Tony into escalating.

Tony clamps down on any weakness and puts on the mask of indifference he needs to sell the scene. He turns slowly. 

Despite his brave words, Steve’s shaking. Tony clucks his tongue and advances on him.

“So tough, Captain,” he says. “I’d be impressed if I didn’t have you tied up at my mercy.”

That works a charm on Steve. He whines and looks up at Tony with pleading eyes. Tony feels a spark of arousal at that, and he snatches for it, yes, there, that’s how he’s supposed to be feeling — but it slips away from him and leaves him feeling hollow.

For the first time, Tony realizes that something might be going sideways. But he put a lot of preparation into this scene, and he’s not having it capsize on him fifteen minutes in.

Tony works his gloves off, one finger at a time, and places them gently on Steve’s lap. “Look after these for me, hm?” he says.

Steve bucks his hips and the gloves slide onto the floor. In a proper scene, Steve would have let Tony use him however he liked, even if that was as a place to set his things.

Tony chews the inside of his lip. Steve expects Tony to hurt him again. That’s what he wants.

With his bared fingers, Tony flicks away a drop of water on Steve’s chin. “Tell me who you work for,” he demands softly.

“Go to hell,” Steve says, and spits in Tony’s face.

Tony takes a shaky breath — it’s anger, he’s feigning anger — wipes spit off his cheek, and does what he has to: he backhands Steve across the face.

The blow rattles up Tony’s arm. Steve’s head snaps to the side from the force of it. The sound of the slap rings in Tony’s ears.

Steve’s licking his teeth, eyes shut, savoring the pain. One of Tony’s rings has taken a chunk of skin out of Steve’s cheekbone; the small wound is so fresh the blood hasn’t had a chance to well up yet, still just a pale-edged divot with a speck of red at its heart. It’s very beautiful. Tony’s head is an empty cathedral. 

He’s not thinking of Natasha with her gun resting coldly on the back of his neck, minutes after she tried to guide his dick into her cunt while helicarriers fell out of the sky in the windows. He’s not thinking of his father’s wedding band. He’s thinking of — of — of the Bordeaux racked behind Steve’s head, thinking of France with its lovely wine and the heavy ripe smell of vineyards, of the woman he’d asked to send him whatever they had of that vintage, yes, all of it, he’d have his people to work out the price and shipping details later. She’d had a blue scarf, the square of silk tied prettily around her neck.

“You’re going to regret that,” Tony says, and he’s doing the voice wrong, he’s not making eye contact with Steve, he’s staring at the bottles of wine.

“Tony?” Steve asks.

“I’m fine,” Tony says. That’s not what Steve needs to hear, he’s —

“I work for the Ultimates,” Steve says, loud and clear in Tony’s ear. 

Tony startles and jerks away.

Steve’s tapping out. Tony’s failed, Tony’s hurt Steve, God, not again, not again, Steve’s still talking, Tony needs to listen. “I want us to stop. Tony, eyes front. _I work for the Ultimates, I’m answering your question._ ”

“Okay,” Tony says, because Steve needs him; Tony needs to cut those ropes before his partner starts to panic.

Steve’s eyes follow Tony as he gets the shears and cuts Steve free. As soon as he’s shaken the bindings off, Steve is up and hurrying for Tony’s stash of recovery supplies, grabbing a blanket and coming back. Tony stands, useless, vague and spinning with guilt.

Even though Steve is soaked and must be freezing, he doesn’t wrap himself in the blanket. Instead he wipes the chair dry and pushes Tony into it.

“You weren’t enjoying that,” Steve says firmly.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says. He doesn’t feel like himself. He’s an un-person, a vague shell that moves and speaks but is strangely missing a personality.

“That’s not — “ Steve breaks off and makes a low noise of frustration. “I didn’t call it because of _me._ You got weird. I think you’re upset.”

“It was okay for you though, right?” Tony asks. If Steve doesn’t get his fix tonight he might go out and get hurt tomorrow. That’s unacceptable.

Steve runs a hand through his hair. It sticks up in wet spikes, then flops over again. “Yeah — yeah, it was good, okay? But then you went all stiff and now I think you’re freaking out.”

Tony licks his lips and nods. He might be freaking out.

“Do you need a minute?”

Does he?

Steve’s eyes are wide with alarm.

Does he need a minute?

How long has it been?

Steve takes Tony by the shoulders and gently shakes him. “C’mon, snap out of it.”

Tony would love to snap out of it, but that’s not happening right now. He’s remembering why he doesn’t play with consent. It upsets him — makes him fragile inside. He thought that if he wasn’t planning to touch Steve’s dick then it would be different, it wouldn’t be sex, but that was stupid, wasn’t it? It’s all sex. It has been the whole time.

“Dammit, be Tony again!” Steve shouts, patience all spent.

“Well, you don’t have to be rude about it,” Tony hears himself say automatically. That’s what he’s supposed to sound like — Tony lost track of that for a bit there.

Steve lets out a giant sigh of relief. Then, to Tony’s surprise, he’s bundled up in a massive hug, pressed against Steve almost too tightly to breathe. It’s like being hugged by a very wet oak tree. It helps. Steve’s here. Steve wants to touch him. Steve noticed that something was wrong and he stopped for _Tony_. 

“I didn’t know you could get damn combat neurosis from fooling around,” Steve mutters against Tony’s neck. “You don’t have a unit, but you’ve got me, okay Stark? You’re not alone out there. Wherever you go, your buddies will find you and get you home.”

Tony hangs onto Steve and indulges himself in a few violent tremors. Steve rubs his back, then stands patiently and lets Tony be a dead weight against him. Steve’s going to get him home. It’s a nice thought.

Steve’s chest is magnificent, muscle on muscle, and Tony’s in a position to appreciate it. They’ve never embraced like this before; a month of furtive, kinky sexual encounters and they haven’t held each other. Tony buries his nose in Steve’s cold skin and shuts his eyes for a long moment. He’s going to stay right here until he remembers how to be himself again. Already it’s coming back, along with a wave of frustration that everything went tits-up in such a predictable way. 

“This was supposed to be oodles of fun for the whole family,” Tony sighs eventually. “I drilled holes in my nice floor. The tile we’re standing on is imported, you know.”

“Couldn’t tell,” Steve says. When Steve talks with Tony pressed up against him like this Tony can feel the rumble of his voice in his bones. “Looks like tile.”

“It’s actually — you don’t care. It was very expensive.”

“Was it the chair that upset you?” Steve asks carefully.

“Chair’s fine, chair’s great. Big fan of tying people to chairs.”

“So — “ The question Steve’s leading towards is clear. What the fuck happened to Tony?

Tony pulls away a little and Steve lets him go, although he leaves his hands resting on Tony’s upper arms, comfortingly close. “I don’t do well with ignoring the word no. Not in bed. Or in wine cellar, as it were.”

“I was pretending,” Steve assures him.

“I knew that. Didn’t matter.”

Steve nods like that makes sense to him; Tony is pretty sure he’s putting it on. This certainly doesn’t make sense to _Tony._

“What happens now?” Steve asks. “I’d rather not — I don’t think it’s a good idea to try again.”

Tony’s about halfway back down to earth, rational brain reasserting itself. Waiting for one extra night isn’t going to send Steve on a self-destructive rampage. He’ll have a chance to work Steve over before they’re called out again.

He chuckles wryly and tells the truth. “God, no, I’m done for the night. I’m sorry for ruining your evening with my delicate constitution, but right now my dick is deader than a Mormon bar on a Sunday night. I want to go to bed.” _And I want to not be alone,_ Tony adds silently.

Steve gives him a steady once-over and reads his mind. “Do you want my company?”

 _Yes, please yes,_ Tony thinks. “You’re not obligated,” Tony says. “I understand if sharing a king-sized bed with another man is too overtly homosexual for you.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve says. “Overtly homosexual.”

Tony shrugs as eloquently as he can with Steve’s hands still resting on his biceps. “I’ve been called that, from time to time. By all means, take me to bed, big boy.”

“Whatever you like, Tony,” Steve says softly, and Tony doesn’t deserve this, not even after a million years of atonement for his sins; Steve is too good. But Tony’s a hedonist, so he’s not going to sleep this off alone if he doesn’t have to.

* * *

To Tony’s displeasure, sleep is not easy. Tony hates the way failed sex makes him restless. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling and grinding his teeth. There’s nothing to settle on; everything is off-kilter and unsatisfying. Usually he’d solve this problem by masturbating and falling asleep, but Steve is in bed with him, a big solid presence, and Tony refuses to send him away.

“If you don’t stop wiggling, I’m going to lie on top of you,” Steve says.

Tony tries to be still, but the position he’s in becomes almost instantly intolerable, so he rolls over again. Steve hmphs at him in frustration and throws a heavy leg over Tony’s knees, pinning him. Steve’s breath smells like toothpaste, clean and domestic.

“I’m slightly antsy,” Tony explains.

“I can see that.”

“Do you want to — “ Steve pauses to grimace obviously enough that Tony can see it in the dark — “talk about it?”

“No. Maybe. No.”

Most of Tony’s previous partners would have pushed at the narrow opening Tony’s given, but Steve just shrugs and keeps squashing Tony with his rock-solid thigh. “Okay.”

It’s an odd brand of tenderness, but Tony appreciates it. People look at Steve’s straightforward face and his blunt approach to conversation and expect him to be predictable. They’re wrong — Steve frequently only makes sense in retrospect. He’ll pull something completely unexpected out of his ass, something that flies in the face of all social convention, and yet when Tony looks back it’ll fit neatly into Steve’s moral framework, not a hair out of place.

“I’m tired of thinking about how my personal brand of sexual dysfunction means that any third-rate Bond villain can outperform me in the sack,” Tony sighs. “It’s humiliating, and that’s not one of my kinks.”

“Hm,” Steve says, then pauses for so long Tony thinks he might have fallen asleep. “Don’t think I care if I’m saying yes or no. I expect I’ll always like it when you hit me.”

That’s nice of Steve to say. Tony will decide if he believes it or not later. Right now he’s still itching under his skin, and Steve’s elbow is digging into his side in an awkward way. He grabs a pillow and shoves it under his shoulders to see if that helps.

Steve huffs in annoyance. “What does it take to make you stop squirming?”

Fine. If Steve wants to know so badly, Tony will tell him. “Usually, I solve this problem by playing a round of one-handed foosball.”

“What’s — oh.”

“I’d rather cuddle with you than crank one out, unfortunately.”

Steve shifts around some, freeing Tony’s legs and drawing away. Tony guesses he’s going to get his solo session after all, now that he’s scared Steve away with his stupid mouth. Tonight is going _great_.

“How’s this for a compromise?” Steve asks. 

It’s Tony’s turn to be confused. “What do you mean?”

“Figured you couldn’t see to yourself very well with my leg in the way,” Steve says reasonably. “This way you have some room, but I’m still here.”

Tony gapes open-mouthed but Steve seems perfectly serious, and also moderately smug. Put a point on the board for Steve: he’s the one out here throwing curveballs this time. Tony’s dick gets with the program first and makes it obvious that Tony’s got a wonderful window of opportunity here and it’d be a shame to let it go by.

“Do you want a show?” Tony asks, gaming it out in his head. Steve can’t see him very well, given the dark bedroom and all the blankets in the way, but Tony can be noisy. If he — 

“Nah,” Steve says, interrupting Tony’s planning. “Just take care of yourself. Make it nice — easy, you know?”

Steve can’t know that what he’s asking for is more difficult than the performance option. Chasing his pleasure down, quick and greedy and without finesse, in front of Steve — that sounds almost impossible. It’s not how Tony _does_ sex. Sex with Tony is magnificent. It’s not supposed to include Tony deciding he wants an orgasm because he’s anxious and it’ll take his mind off of things for long enough to let him get to sleep.

On the other hand, Tony’s twitchy with leftover energy from earlier that doesn’t have anywhere to go, and exchanging his current state for a comfortable post-orgasm glow sounds heavenly. Steve watches quietly, expectantly.

Instead of answering out loud, Tony rolls over to rummage around in his nightstand drawer for the no-frills serviceable lube.

“There,” Steve says, when Tony’s pushed his sleep pants halfway down his thighs and wrapped a hand around his mostly-soft dick. It hardens up obligingly with a few quick strokes.

Tony shuts his eyes and tries to pretend Steve’s not there, that he’s just having a nightly spank sesh. His palm is slick, the bed is warm, if he reaches down just like _that_ he can cup his balls comfortably with his other hand. Nice and simple, like Steve said. Easier said than done. Tony keeps remembering that Steve’s watching and knocking himself off the climb to orgasm. The more he tries to clear his mind of everything but the sensation of hand on dick, the more Steve intrudes on his thoughts.

When Tony sneaks a look at Steve, he’s relaxed and still in the dark, somehow already a familiar shape in his bed. Tony’s eyes are adjusted enough that he can make out Steve’s expression — soft interest, nothing urgent, oddly content.

“Is it weird if I fantasize about you while you’re right here?” Tony asks, pausing his strokes.

Steve shrugs. “Less weird than imagining someone else.”

“Fantasy Steve is a real perv,” Tony warns.

Steve laughs and smooths the pillow by Tony’s head. “Fantasy Steve will let you do whatever you like to him, huh?”

“Mmmm, _anything,_ ” Tony hums. “Reality Steve has no idea.”

Tony tries to come up with what he’d do with utter free reign over Steve. He could shackle him by the neck to a vertical post, kneeling in a bed of sharp gravel until his knees were on fire from bearing his weight — a supersoldier centerpiece in Tony’s imaginary zen garden. It would be beautiful, all rockscape with driftwood accents, and every morning Tony could rake the sand and attend to Steve. He’d have Steve take him expertly in his mouth, and Tony could put one foot on Steve’s bent thigh, driving his shin harder into the pointed rocks as he fucked Steve’s face. He’d be able to feel Steve whimper around his cock as he pressed his lacerated skin against the harsh ground.

Tony finds that he’s stroking himself again, and checks to see if Steve is watching. Steve’s focused on his face, apparently unconcerned with what Tony’s up to below the belt.

“Looks like you came up with a good one,” Steve rumbles.

“Depraved,” Tony agrees, and rubs a thumb over the head of his cock. It makes his thighs tighten and he decides to go for another fantasy, something that would make Steve really writhe.

Steve’s nipples are so sensitive; Tony’s dying to get at them with clamps. He’d warm them up with a crop first, leaving Steve needy and swollen, then fit a delicate vise over each of them. He’d tighten the screws until Steve whined and went up on his toes from the cruel pinch, and then give it one more turn. And once Steve was biting back whimpers Tony would force him back into uniform, crushing his already agonized nipples under layers of tactical nylon. All the ways Steve was hard and hurting, hidden under the stars and stripes. Tony could make him sit through a briefing like that. He’d tuck a bullet vibe into the front of Steve’s pants and duct-tape it to his cock, a tantalizing, humiliating counterpoint to the pain in his chest. If Tony leaned in close and ordered Steve to come, he’d burst on the spot.

And after — God, after — Tony would drag Steve into the men’s room and unzip his pants, letting Steve’s filthy dick fall free, messy with come, vibrator clamped to it and still going. Tony’d shove down his own slacks and crowd Steve up against a wall, grinding forward until he could rut next to Steve’s raw cock, dragging through Steve’s sticky, barely cooled come. It’d be too much for Steve to keep quiet. Tony’d have to cover his mouth with one hand, smothering him as he rubbed off against Steve’s pelvis. The picture is so vivid Tony can almost feel the buzz of the vibrator.

Tony opens his eyes and Steve is right there, so close Tony’s in danger of jabbing him with his elbow as he fists his dick. Tony could do half the things he just imagined to Steve, really, all he has to do is ask. Steve’s so happy to be a tool for Tony’s pleasure that he’ll lay here silently while Tony jerks off and not ask a single thing for himself.

The thought makes Tony lose his metaphorical footing again, but this time instead of having to re-center himself and start over, Tony slips and falls ass-first into orgasm.

“Oh, ah — there it is,” Tony gasps quietly, squeezing the base of his dick as he comes with a shudder.

It’s not much of a production; his hips jerk, he makes a mess on his pajama shirt, and finally Tony’s whole body goes loose and boneless.

Tony strips off his shirt, wipes up some errant drips of come, and tosses it over the side of the bed. Then he stretches out next to Steve, completely done for the evening. He feels open and vulnerable, almost silly for indulging in such a base bodily activity right in front of Steve, but not so raw anymore.

“Better?” Steve asks softly.

Tony groans at the indignity of being asked a question that requires a response and rolls over to dig his chin into Steve’s pectoral muscles. His forehead brushes Steve’s jawline, stubble scraping gently against his temple.

Steve very precisely puts an arm around Tony’s back, like he’s a poorly programmed robot that still requires a lot of detailed user input to not break the pencil it’s trying to pick up. Tony takes that as a sign that he’s allowed to weave one arm through the blankets and snug it around Steve’s waist. Steve should know that he can touch Tony however he wants, as much as he likes, unless Tony’s tied him up and explicitly told him not to. But saying things out loud is a lot of work, and Tony’s dog tired. Steve’s chest rises and falls with the slow, steady pace of waves crashing onto shore. He’ll tell Steve tomorrow. In the morning. If he’s still here.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

Steve’s not in bed when Tony wakes up. Tony sighs and resolves to fetch the opera glasses and start scanning the sidewalks below for handsome conquests, because he can’t take heartbreak like this anymore. Then he comes more to his senses and realizes that Steve’s not gone. He’s halfway across the room, cursing at Tony’s PDA as it refuses to let him view messages without authorization. The priority number is ringing obnoxiously and it won’t stop until someone keys in the passcode.

“Five, two, alfa, charlie, hashmark, eight, tango, bravo, golf, four, ampersand, victor, echo,” Tony mumbles into the pillow. “Just type it in with the stylus and it’ll unlock.”

With a two-tone chime, the PDA gives Steve access.

“Shit,” Steve says, with feeling.

“Did I miss a meeting?” Tony groans, squinting around for the clock. “I tell Fury fifteen times not to use the emergency line whenever I’m just a titchy bit late and does he listen? No, it’s like he’s never heard of — “

Steve stops him with a short shake of his head. “Event Horizon found a gas pipeline. They’re calling in the Ultimates.”

Tony’s eyes flick to Steve’s chest. The last scab from Steve’s previous fight with Event Horizon probably healed overnight, but it’s too soon. He didn’t take care of Steve last night. It will be completely unacceptable if Steve gets killed by someone who wears baja hoodies and probably says things like “if it’s yellow let it mellow.”

_I need a fucking drink,_ Tony thinks.

“This job is the worst,” Tony says, putting on a smile he knows isn’t his best work. Four out of ten: points docked for obvious strain and lack of naturalism. “There are so many ways I could spend my time that would be more fiscally responsible. Iron Man is a terrible investment, it positively _hemorrhages_ capital. Plus, the armpits are chafe-y, even with the impact goo.”

Steve lets Tony extemporize until he runs out of air. Then he comes over to drop a heavy hand on Tony’s shoulder. The gesture is uncommonly possessive; it says _you’re on my team_. Steve always protects his people.

“You’re going to be fine,” Steve says, exuding confidence.

It would be comforting, if that’s who Tony was worried about.

* * *

Thor, Jan and Tony can fly; Clint and Steve are out of luck. They land the Ultimates jet about a mile away to avoid spooking their jumpy mutant, then Thor grabs Clint and Tony grabs Steve for the last leg of the journey. Flying with a passenger, even one as handsome as Steve, blows. Tony’s gyroscopes complain about the extra weight imbalance, and the pressure sensors under the armor’s skin inform him that Steve is employing a great deal of grip strength.

They spot Event Horizon standing on top of the Pacific Gas Transmission pipeline. The pipe is four feet in diameter, ten feet off the ground and supported by metal stilts. It’s silver. That’s about it in terms of physical characteristics. The terrain is otherwise dotted with scrubby clumps of juniper and isolated pine trees. Not a lot of cover.

The fliers dive to drop their cargo, and all hell busts loose. Clint flips out of Thor’s grip and looses an arrow while still in the air. It clips the mutant’s shoulder — she curses and throws a gravity bolt, then teleports off.

Before Clint can get swiss-cheesed, Thor sends a tongue of lightning to strike Event Horizon’s projectile. The gravity well consumes the electricity in a sucking vortex of light and winks out of existence. _Weird._ Tony itches to get this chick to a controlled lab environment and test what the hell is going on there.

Event Horizon pops back into view below Tony, yelling the usual true-believer drivel about revolution and injustice. Two flashes of light burst at her temple — must be Jan. Wasp’s too tiny for Event Horizon to notice, and it’s given Jan an opening to zap her twice in the noggin. She spins in a stunned half-circle and teleports reflexively. Unfortunately for her, she reappears practically in Steve’s lap.

Steve catapults himself towards Event Horizon. He grabs her by the collar and headbutts her, but then she vanishes from his grasp and blinks away to perch on the top of the pipeline. She’s bleeding from her nose where Steve’s forehead hit her in the face. Steve pivots and makes leaps after her. The shot of liquid courage in Tony’s gut lurches.

In the pale morning light, Steve and Event Horizon are silhouettes against a washed-out grey sky. The two figures on top of the pipe face off, ten paces apart. Steve’s balanced on the balls of his feet, weight forward, shield cocked back. Tony can almost see him calculating trajectories. Then Event Horizon crouches and puts a hand on the pipe.

“Don’t come any closer!” she shouts. “I’ll punch a hole in this, I swear to god I will, and only one of us is fast enough to get out of the way.”

She’s serious, Tony knows she’s serious, and this isn’t the kind of risk-taking that has consequences Steve can shrug off. Tony can’t just blast her; she’s sitting on a giant pipe bomb. Tony’s siezed by dumb animal terror that something permanent is about to happen.

“Steve, don’t!” Tony yells. 

Steve stops on a dime. Tony’s focus is interrupted by a rush of relief and the armor yaws to the left. Everyone turns to look at him — he’s on open comms. Even Event Horizon darts a glance his way, following the rest of their gazes. The suit chimes as the autopilot corrects his balance.

“We can talk to her,” Tony says, grasping for a tactical reason to explain his outburst. “Gather information. Negotiate.”

Steve stares Event Horizon down, evaluating. Then, instead of slinging his shield at her, Steve raises his hands in a pacifying gesture and backs away. “We don’t want any explosions,” he says clearly. “How about we both get down from here and talk?”

“Don’t try to trick me!” she yells.

“It’s not a trick,” Steve says. “We’re all going to _fall back_ and _not point any arrows at you_ ,” he adds, which makes Clint grumble and un-nock his bow.

The Ultimates warily stand down, ending up in a loose half-circle on the ground while Event Horizon crouches on top of the gas pipeline, hair plastered to her face as it’s whipped wild by the wind. They have to shout to hear each other, but she’s not budging.

“Why can’t you leave us alone?” Event Horizon wails. She sounds worryingly hysterical. Tony knows he’s not supposed to call women hysterical — sexism, yadda yadda — but if the shoe fits, come on.

When Steve replies to Event Horizon his voice is so precisely modulated you could tune an oscillator with it. “I know you’re having a hard time. But you’re putting the environment and innocent civilians in danger, and it’s our duty to keep that from happening. Stand down, ma’am.”

“I need to know where my friends are!”

“SHIELD custody, on behalf of the county jail, which isn’t equipped to hold mutants,” Steve says. “They’re safe, nothing bad has happened to them.”

“Yet,” Clint says in sotto voce.

“They didn’t do anything wrong!” Event Horizon yells. “We were just born mutants, we’re not dangerous!”

One thing Tony likes about the armor is that it means he can roll his eyes as much as he likes. It’s good they’ve got her talking, but that’s a load of bull. 

“Your power literally makes holes in people,” Tony cuts in, speakers in the helmet making him perfectly understandable at a distance without having to raise his voice. Shouting makes him sound shrill. “Sort of definitionally dangerous.”

“The Iron Man suit does that too, and you built it like that on purpose!”

“She has a point there,” Clint says. 

“You had an entire barn full of AR-15s,” Tony counters. “Hard to acquire those on accident. The price tags alone, phew.”

“I live in rural Oregon! What did you expect?”

Clint smirks. “She got you again.”

Tony cuts the speaker volume. “Shut up, Clint.”

Then he turns them back on to address the girl. “We are not having the both sides conversation while you’re threatening us with a massive natural gas leak, sweetheart. If you burst that thing, it’ll go up like the world’s biggest bunsen burner.”

“You weren’t listening!”

That’s the last straw. Tony’s tired of anticipating and manipulating and fixing problems before they have a chance to occur. “Okay. You know what? Fine. Fine! What do you want? Why am I dealing with your bullshit instead of eating a lovely breakfast of eggs Florentine with braised artichoke hearts?” _Or in bed with Steve, telling him all the ways I want to have him._

Clint groans. “You are such a rich bastard, all the time, it’s sickening.”

Jan zips past his nose to agree. “That was pretty out of touch, even for you.”

Event Horizon vanishes from the top of the pipeline and reappears at ground level, a little closer to the Ultimates. “I want my friends back,” she says.

“You established that, yes,” Tony says. “But _before_ we whisked your merry band away, surely all those guns and ammo weren’t for interior decorating. There’s cheaper options, dear. Some nice macrame, for instance. Decoupage. Sponge painting an accent wall. Guns cost a fortune and hunting lodge kitsch is no longer de la mode.”

“There’s a mutant exclusionist militia in the next county over, and they’re doing training exercises to _kill us_. We _tried_ telling the Sheriff's department, but they didn’t help — instead they reported us to you motherfuckers! And then you took my friends, all because we’re mutants and we’re protecting ourselves.”

“Does that protecting operate on the principle that the best defense is a good offense?”

Event Horizon scowls. “No.”

Again, Tony is glad he can roll his eyes without consequence. “Don’t lie that obviously and expect me to buy it — that’s insulting.”

“Nobody cares about mutants. We have to do everything ourselves.”

“Okay, I get it, mutant-oppression this, hate crimes that, your plight is a tragic, unsubtle metaphor for homophobia, etcetera etcetera. You can’t execute preemptive strikes and not expect that to have legal consequences, even if that strike is against an asshole,” Tony says. “You should have figured out ahead of time how you were going to defend your case when you got caught. I suggest buying off the police commissioner.”

“We can’t all buy a politician, asshole!” Event Horizon scoffs.

Tony realizes that possibly they’ve been having a throw-down slug-out and Steve got Dick Cheney-ed over something that’s extremely easy to fix. 

He feels _very_ stupid.

“If I vanish your legal troubles and get rid of the rival militia problem, will you stop being a terrorist?”

Event Horizon takes a careful step forward, eyeing Tony warily. Steve tenses, but doesn’t spring at her. “Will you let my friends out of jail? I need them.”

“I’ll pay their bail _after_ you meet me Friday at three PM to discuss you not being a terrorist.”

“Seriously?”

“No, as a joke,” Tony snarks. “Yes, seriously: fighting you is a giant pain in the ass, and I’d rather not. Friday. Come to the Stark NYC offices and ask for the big man.”

Jan lands on Tony’s shoulder. “I hate to be a downer, but how can you trust her not to bolt and keep trying to blow things up?”

“If we try to force her to come with us, we’ll lose and she’ll bolt anyway. This is shitty terrain for us and she’s impossible to catch. Best case here, we let her go and she comes back to the bargaining table willingly. Worst case, she fucks off and we repeat this showdown, hopefully with us in a more advantageous position.”

Really, the strategic pros and cons don’t matter to Tony. He lets his mouth run on justification autopilot, while the rest of him screams with impatience to get Steve home and touch him all over his unscathed body. The rest is immaterial. Event Horizon just became a problem that can be solved with money, and for Tony that’s no problem at all.

Event Horizon tilts her head to one side, then nods. “Okay. Friday.”

“Good call, boo boo. Be punctual. You won’t regret it.”

* * *

The paramilitary dillweeds at the Trisk want to dress everyone down for not catching Event Horizon for the third time running, so Tony skips the flight on the SHIELD jet and opts instead for a nice, quiet trip in the armor. It’ll get him to the Triskelion in time to shuck himself out of his abominably uncomfortable armor before the rest of the Ultimates arrive.

The cross-country jaunt is uneventful except that he gets a cramp in his foot somewhere above West Virginia; the hot water in the locker rooms is heavenly. Tony drips all over the floor as he exits the shower, idly drying himself. He smells like SHIELD’s industrial soap and residual isobutanol fumes, but it’s a vast improvement. 

He’s pulling on a robe from his locker when the door opens and Steve comes in. The jet must have caught up while Tony was washing impact gel out of his hair, because he didn’t hear it land. 

Steve swings the door open and lobs a pack of gear at a bench with broad, unhurt movements. He’s whole, and they’re alone. That’s all Tony needs to know — then he’s dragging Steve to him and tucking his face into the crook of Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s heartbeat rushes by Tony’s ear, and Tony grips the back of Steve’s neck and presses him close. Tony’s shaking, filled with something fierce that makes him want to infiltrate Steve so completely that he can’t be cut away. He’s making a fool of himself, throwing himself at Steve and clinging, but he’s been gripped by irrationality and can’t bear to stop touching Steve.

“What’s all this?” Steve asks, patting Tony’s hair awkwardly, then trying to pull back to see his face. Tony digs his fingernails in and doesn’t let him go anywhere.

“Shush. I’m engaging in a post-battle embrace with my honey. I was _so_ not looking forward to another week of zero sex while you healed from this fight,” Tony says. “You deserve a reward; something absolutely sadistic. Everything your sweet little masochist heart could want.”

“Oh,” Steve says.

He lets Tony hold him for a long moment, then wets his lips to say something else. “You didn’t sleep with anyone while I was laid up?” Steve asks, voice small.

Tony stiffens in surprise. That’s not the part of his explanation he'd expected Steve to get stuck on. He hadn’t even thought about the the possibility that he might fuck someone else while Steve recovered. He has Steve — who was going to compare? It occurs to Tony that he’s exhibiting distressingly monogamous behavior. 

Steve swallows and shifts his weight. “Doesn’t matter. You were busy. I know this is just your convenient way to keep Captain America sane. It’s fine.”

“You are the farthest thing from convenient, Stevie-boy,” Tony snorts. It’s too true to stifle. Then everything in Tony’s head freezes, thoughts turning into statuary. Steve stills too, not breathing.

Tony has a choice, here. He wants to brush it off, laugh and call Steve a handful and leave it at that. But he’s been fighting blind for weeks, and he feels the same way he did out in the field, tired of gaming out possibilities when he could just _know_. The other option is —

“Do you ever think about what this would be without your unfortunate self-destructive streak?” Tony asks softly.

“This?”

“Us,” Tony says. “If you had it all figured out, loose cannon lashed back down on deck, and didn’t need me to bleed off steam.”

Steve grunts. “Then you’d have no reason to hurt me, would you?”

That statement is catastrophically incorrect. Tony takes a half-step back from Steve and treats him to a lingering once-over, then looks at Steve and raises an eyebrow. Steve’s uniform has thin smears of black across the white stripes. Tony smiles when he realizes where they’re from — it’s grease from the seams in Tony’s armor. “I would still have reasons,” Tony says lowly.

Steve blinks and says nothing, so Tony goes on, spelling it out. “Do you know how beautiful you are when I beat you? I’d go celibate if it meant I got to whip you stupid once a fortnight. I want to strip you down to the bone so I can touch every piece of you. If you retired completely from rearranging other people’s faces I’d still jerk off to the thought of your dick.”

It’s more than Tony means to say, but it causes Steve’s eyes to go dark and his breath to catch.

“Do you want that?” Tony asks, heart racing. This is it; cards on the table. Tony’s wheelhouse is bluff and misdirection, but in every game there's the point where it’s time to see what everyone’s got.

“God, yes,” Steve breathes, and Tony’s soaring: victorious, delighted, free.

* * *

Of course, Tony isn’t planning to renege on his promise to reward Steve’s performance in the field very, very painfully.

“I need a physiological baseline,” Tony’d told Steve when he invited him down to the gym after their post-combat briefings, naps and beverages. “It’s research, so I can learn what your body’s basic abilities are before I push it.”

Steve had raised an eyebrow. “Push it as in — “

“Sex, yes, I want to know how hard I can hit you,” Tony’d said bluntly, and Steve’s Adam’s apple had bobbed as he swallowed.

Tony steps into the mansion gym, then locks the door behind him. Tony told Steve to meet him at four that afternoon, but Steve got there early — when Tony arrives he’s racking weights that hadn’t been put away by whoever had used the gym last.

Steve straightens and sticks his hands in his sweatpant pockets when he sees Tony. He’s bright-eyed with anticipation, clearly excited to get going.

“This isn’t going to be all that titillating,” Tony says. “I’m going to ask you a bunch of detailed questions about how you feel while we test how much you’re capable of. If you weren’t a superhero I could figure this out on the fly in the bedroom, but all of my assumptions of what’s within a reasonable range are based on normal human.”

“Sure,” Steve says. “What do you need to know?”

“How do you feel about isometric exercises?” Tony asks. “I don’t have any weights that you can’t easily lift, so the best bet here is using time and your bodyweight against you.”

Steve nods and flexes his hands. “There’s not a lot of calisthenics I can’t do. The Army docs said they needed to invent a new kind of pushup to tire me out faster.”

Tony cracks his knuckles. “If you know anything about me, it’s that I love inventing.”

Steve puts the water bottle and towel he brought with him in a corner, then strides over to the mats, already stretching his arms.

“How long can you hold a handstand?” Tony asks.

Steve frowns. “I don’t remember the last time I tried,” he says. “Mostly I run and lift weights to stay fit these days.”

“Well, up and at ‘em,” Tony says.

Steve leans forward into the most beautiful handstand Tony’s ever seen, his back straight as a square rule. The sweatpants obscure most of the shape of Steve’s legs, and he’s tucked his t-shirt into the waistband, robbing Tony of the sight of it falling down to reveal Steve’s amazing abs tensed with effort. Tony promises to himself that he’s going to have Steve do this naked someday.

“I think I could do about two hours comfortably,” Steve says, shifting his weight to lift one arm and holding it out, parallel to the floor. He switches arms and his pointed toes barely waver. “Less one-handed.”

Tony walks over and pushes on Steve’s thigh. Steve re-balances almost instantly. Someday Tony is going to have Steve do this naked for _two hours._ “Could I cane you while you were like this, or would you fall over?”

Steve grunts. “Depends on how intense. Probably for a while.”

“Hm,” Tony says. Tony has a pair of parallel bars by the wall, which offer more challenging options. “What can you do on those?”

Steve, showing off, flips to his feet. He barely makes a sound when he lands. He mounts the bars with a noisy wobble and clack. Steve lifts his legs until they’re parallel to the ground, then cycles through a few positions, ending in a planche, supported only on his hands with his whole body flawlessly horizontal.

“And if I wanted to get to your inner thighs?” 

Steve clears his throat.

“Research purposes,” Tony says, holding up his hands. “I swear.”

Slowly, Steve spreads his legs until he’s in the splits, all his weight still centered over his hands on the beams. That would work nicely, Tony thinks. Then Steve swings around into a different straddle position and that’s even better. As Tony watches, Steve switches from hold to hold, kinesthetically brainstorming sex plans.

“Can you stay like that?” Tony asks. Steve’s balanced with his legs held out in front of his body in a vee, his thighs and torso forming a ninety degree angle in the air that must be torturous to maintain.

“Not for two hours,” Steve says, strain creeping into his voice as he tightens his muscles and refines the lines of his body. “Want me to try to hold one of these?”

“I do. I want to position you and watch your whole body tremble as you hold still so I can mark you up properly, and I need to know what my options are,” Tony says lightly.

One of Steve’s legs falls about six inches before he yanks it back into alignment.

Tony grins. “Enjoy that thought?”

“So I’d do gymnastics and you’d hit me with one of your little sticks?”

“My stick’s not _that_ little,” Tony says with a wink. Steve blushes, and Tony’s reminded again that Steve hasn’t heard every cliche innuendo of the twenty-first century a thousand times and can still be caught off guard. “But yes, we could do that if you like. You’re welcome to provide suggestions, of course.”

“My favorite gymnastics event was always the rings,” Steve says, biting his lip and giving Tony a significant look.

“I could strip you naked first,” Tony says. 

Steve makes a small sound and drops his feet to the floor.

“Bruise you. Hurt you. Touch you.”

When Tony says _touch you_ Steve looks down and a small wistful smile twists on his face. Tony stops and relaxes his body language, making himself open and receptive so Steve will say what has him hesitating.

“I had a question,” Steve says, smacking his palms against the bars a couple times. “About touching.”

_That’s ominous,_ Tony thinks. His stomach does a kick-flip.

“Would you just touch my — um — my penis? Or more… everywhere? And could I touch you?”

Tony almost chokes on his tongue when Steve says _penis_. But he gets past it — _penis_ , Christ, Steve’s never allowed to try dirty talk — and gets to the idea of Steve asking if he can touch _Tony_.

“I don’t know if this kind of sex thing comes with touching,” Steve continues awkwardly. “I don’t know how this works. Are we allowed to kiss?”

“Oh,” Tony says, and he’s overwhelmed by the immediate knowledge that kissing Steve is an option. He hasn’t been thinking of that; his brain has been protecting him from imagining what he can’t have. But Steve’s asking him with hope, like he’d very much like Tony to say yes. “We’re allowed,” Tony says carefully. “If that’s a thing you’re interested in.”

Steve nods silently.

Tony lets Steve close the distance between them. He stops when they’re nose to nose, hands awkward at his sides, and stares at Tony like he’s run out of steps in his plan. Tony lays a hand on Steve’s hip and feels himself flush. This is new, he realizes. He’s never touched Steve like they’re — like they’re in a relationship before. Tony had assumed Steve wouldn’t want this, that somehow _this_ was the step too far into homo shit. It’s not about pain at all.

Steve isn’t supposed to want him for more than a kinky fuck.

Tony tilts his head to the side and lets his lips part in invitation. Steve’s hip under Tony’s palm is impossibly warm, and he’s aware of everything: the texture of Steve’s dorky, tucked-in t-shirt, each subtle shift in muscle as Steve decides how this moment plays out. He can smell the sweat on Steve from here, evidence of exertion under Tony’s direction.

There’s only a fraction of space between them. Steve leans forward, and his mouth brushes against Tony’s. Steve can be so careful with his body. It’s easy to forget when Tony mostly watches Steve kicking goons into walls, but Steve’s control is perfect in all things. He kicks goons into walls _precisely_. The touch of his lips is so light it almost tickles.

Enough trepidation — Tony presses forward and Steve’s hard, stubborn mouth opens to him. He knows it’s rude, but Tony always keeps his eyes open while he kisses. He’s not going to miss any detail of this.

It’s not a kiss that screams sex. Sure, it makes Tony’s skin sing, but that’s a side effect of the unwarranted emotion running through him like terrible electricity. Steve’s kissing Tony as if he loves him, slow and careful. Like he wants to take Tony home. Maybe Steve doesn’t know how to make a kiss into a fight, a challenge that promises rough, athletic fucking coming soon. Maybe this is just how Steve kisses everyone.

Tony slides both hands to cup Steve’s ass, and Steve tenses. Not that, then. Tony returns to Steve’s hips. “Tell me how to make this good for you,” he says.

“You could touch my neck,” Steve says. “I, um, really enjoy that.”

Running his fingernails through the short hair at the base of Steve’s skull makes him shudder and drag Tony closer until they’re chest to chest. Tony caresses the delicate skin behind Steve’s ear, down the crook of his jaw, and feels Steve melt. Tony imagines wrapping leather around Steve’s neck and tightening it until he chokes, or simply doing it with his hands, collaring Steve with his fingers.

Steve licks into Tony’s mouth, and Tony wishes he hadn’t — Tony knows people are supposed to enjoy frenching, but he doesn’t really like tongue. It occurs to him that he should ask out loud.

“More teeth — I like that better, it gets me really hot,” Tony requests breathlessly. Steve obliges, biting at Tony’s lower lip and it’s perfect, not having to wait for Steve to guess, being touched exactly how he wants.

When they break apart, Tony feels moved in more ways than one. Steve’s eyes dart to the front of Tony’s pants, and Tony takes the opportunity to adjust himself while Steve watches. Steve pulls Tony in for another kiss, hands wandering down Tony’s spine to play with his waistband. “I could take care of that for you,” Steve says.

The last time Steve touched his dick flashes through Tony’s mind. Despite Steve’s warmth encompassing him, a chill finds its way under Tony’s skin. He steps back, and Steve doesn’t follow him.

“The pickle doesn’t _have_ to come out of the jar every time,” Tony says, and he knows his smile is brittle and out of place. “Waiting is half the fun.”

“You saying that because you’re scared?” Steve asks.

Denying that’s as good as admitting it.

Tony licks his lips. They’re still tingling from the scrape of Steve’s teeth. “Our first go-round didn’t end so well,” he says.

“No, it didn’t.”

“So — “

“You know that you shouldn’t have done it,” Steve says. “The way I know I shouldn’t have almost punched you.”

Tony sighs and sits down heavily on the nearby weight bench. He’d wondered how close Steve had come to violence, the last time. “I thought I’d — “ his voice closes over the next word. Assaulted. Violated. Raped.

“In another situation, it might have been,” Steve says. “But I wanted it. I did.”

Tony shivers. “Lucky me,” he says flatly. His dick’s gone limp, surprise surprise.

“You’re powerful enough to ruin people and never feel the consequences. That’s how you expect the world to work,” Steve says. He sounds thoughtful, not accusatory. “Sometimes you take whatever you want and damn everyone else.”

“Sure am,” Tony says. Steve knows people the way Tony knows circuitry. It’s taken Steve barely a moment to find the rotten core of him and cut it out.

Steve smiles ruefully. “Turns me on, if I’m being honest.”

“Probably it shouldn’t,” Tony says, even as his raw, blackened heart clenches. Maybe —

“Tough,” Steve says. “I’m real damn tired of telling my cock what it’s supposed to want and not supposed to want. I want to make love to a proper lady and I can’t get it up, and then you come along and promise to flay my back open and all of a sudden I’ve got come in my underwear.”

“Someday I promise we’ll have sex that doesn’t make a mess of your pants,” Tony jokes weakly.

“Let me suck you off,” Steve says. His jaw is set with classic Steve determination. “C’mon, Tony, I’m ready this time.”

“Not much to work with at the moment,” Tony says, gesturing at himself.

Steve bends down, takes Tony’s face in his hands, and kisses him. Okay, right, that’s one way to address the issue. Steve, always the direct problem solver. Tony holds onto Steve’s biceps and enjoys the feeling of Steve’s lips on his. Given how often Steve’s face looks like it’s carved out of granite, his mouth is awfully soft.

“Tactical genius, huh?”

“People say that.”

By the time Steve sinks to his knees in front of Tony, his hard-on is back with a vengeance. It’s a good look — Steve settled between Tony’s thighs, singularly focused on Tony. He strokes Steve’s hair, then down his neck. In response, Steve gets the front of Tony’s pants open and digs around enthusiastically for Tony’s cock.

“Ouch, okay, go easy slugger, we’re not prospecting for gold down there.” Tony extracts his own erection, careful not to get hung up on the zipper. 

Steve blows air out through his nose and rubs his palms on his sweatpants. That won’t do — Tony can’t stand watching Steve so uncertain. He hums to get Steve’s attention, and doesn’t have to feign the soft gasp that falls from his lips at the sight of Steve’s blue eyes gazing up at him. It hits him that he’s about to teach Steve how to give a blowjob. Not just any blowjob, but the Stark Special with all the fixings, tuned exactly to Tony’s dick. Anyone Steve sucks off in the future will feel the way Tony has shaped him, long after Steve leaves.

“We’re just testing each other out, peaches,” Tony says gently. “It’s not easy to learn another person’s body no matter how much experience you have.”

“You learned me in about half an hour,” Steve says, frowning.

_Yes I did,_ crows a non-useful part of Tony’s mind. “I could know more,” he says aloud, which is also true — he’s Tony Stark, and Tony Stark sucks the marrow out of whatever information is placed in front of him.

He knows what he wants Steve to be sucking.

“We’re going to start with a light touch,” Tony says, stroking the corner of Steve’s lips, anticipating how they’ll look stretched out around dick. “You can get going by nuzzling along the shaft, yeah, underneath, let my cock fall against your face, that’s pretty.”

Steve follows directions like a pro. Tony feels Steve’s eyelashes flutter against his sensitive skin and groans happily. “Let me feel how wet your mouth is,” Tony requests. “Open, drag up with your tongue.“

He encourages Steve to be messy, until Tony’s slick as he likes and aching to be inside something. With prompting, Steve wraps one hand around the base of Tony’s cock and fits his lips around the head of it.

“ _Shit,_ ” Tony says, thighs starting to shake. “Now, flat of your tongue, back and forth against the underside, just behind — like that, yep, fuck, I’m a great teacher.”

Steve stops moving his tongue and gives Tony a look.

“And you’re a star pupil,” Tony adds. He scrapes a fingernail up and down Steve’s neck and gets a shiver. On the second trip, he increases the pressure until it raises a red stripe on Steve’s milky skin. “Now suck.”

It’s not finished then and there, but Tony has a moment of fear that it will be. Tony loses his verbal skills and has to gesture lewdly to get Steve to bob his head the way Tony wants. He digs his nails into Steve’s scalp and groans whenever his mouth does something particularly good.

“Take off your shirt,” Tony pants. “Showing skin has lots of benefits: lovely view, I can come on your chest again, gaining access to your nipples — I could go on.”

Tony strokes himself while Steve strips off the t-shirt and throws it aside. He can’t say confidently what feels more urgent: the swell of emotion in his chest or the slide of his dick. Steve takes him in his mouth again and rubs the tip of his tongue hard against the bottom of Tony’s glans, exactly the way that makes Tony’s whole body jerk. “Up and down and do that every time,” Tony gasps, scratching a set of lines across Steve’s freshly bare back.

“Don’t stop, okay, now — with your free hand — play with your nipples.” Steve pinches and rolls one nipple, not paying it much mind. Tony tuts. “You’re being awfully sweet to yourself. Squeeze until it hurts. Like you mean it. I want to hear you getting off on the pain while I’m in your mouth.”

Steve grabs it harder and twists almost a full half-turn. He whimpers around Tony’s cock and lets go, struggling to keep up his rhythm. Steve’s strong enough to make himself really sting — Tony’s simultaneously delighted and disappointed he didn't think of that earlier.

“Done already?” Tony asks, rocking his hips forward greedily and watching Steve compensate ably. The man absorbs physical skills like a ShamWoW. “All I get is one measly pinch?”

With an all-over shudder, Steve crushes his nipple again and holds it. A string of small agonized sounds comes from Steve’s throat as he abuses himself.

“Oh, yes, like that, deeper. Don’t be shy, I like watching your eyes well up as you try to hold back your gag reflex. Good job, _fuck,_ that’s divine.”

Steve twists his fingers and sucks Tony until both his nipples are bruised and puffy. He looks positively used, back welting up with scratch marks. “Do you want to come while I tickle your tonsils?” Tony asks. “I see how hard you are, enjoying sucking my cock.”

As best he can with a dick in his mouth, Steve nods. He gathers wetness off of Tony’s spit-drenched cock and uses it to slick his palm, then sticks his hand down his pants. Pleasure slackens Steve’s body as he touches his starving cock, perfectly sweet and needy. Tony urges him to keep up the steady pace, the prelude to orgasm spreading warm out over his skin, ebbing forth in pulsing waves as Steve’s lips glide over him.

Steve comes first. He slips off of Tony and tries to curl forward over himself. Tony’s not having that — he’d prefer to see this, thank you — and he grabs Steve by the hair to draw his head back. Steve’s body thrashes once, and the next spasm of release hits him and his back arches, hips twisting in the air. Tony leans forward and works himself rapidly until orgasm hits him like the curtains in a dark room being thrown open. Brightness shocks through Tony, lighting up all the dim, quiet spaces of his body and he’s spilling across Steve’s flushed chest, thinking all the while: _mine, mine, mine._

The last shudder of orgasm rocks through him, and Tony slides to the floor with weak knees. He drags Steve to him and kisses his perfect, come-stupid mouth.

Tony holds Steve, or Steve holds Tony, or they both hold each other, boneless and post-orgasmic. _Don’t leave, please don’t leave, don’t leave,_ Tony begs silently. _Stay with me this time or I’ll perish on the spot, I swear on my last bottle of rye._

“I liked how much you loved that,” Steve whispers hoarsely. “You weren’t faking, right?”

“Honey, I’d have your mouth morning, noon and night if I could get hard often enough,” Tony swears.

“Oh. Good,” Steve grunts, then snuggles into Tony’s chest. It’s like being cuddled by a cement truck. Tony decides prudently not to examine the emotion that elicits, because he’s enjoying an uncomplicated afterglow and doesn’t plan on ruining it.

“This weekend I’m going to _wreck_ you,” Tony says, petting over the scratches he’s left on Steve’s shoulders. They’re lurid and beautiful, sheened with Steve’s sweat and hot under Tony’s fingertips. Steve lets out a small, satisfied _ah_.

Eventually they have to get up. Steve rises and wobbles over to his water bottle to take a long drink, while Tony finally tucks himself away and smartens up. After that Steve changes out of gym clothes, replacing his soiled boxers with fresh ones, and Tony’s forced to leave for a dinner event because the universe is cruel to him specifically.

“Saturday or Sunday?” Steve asks before Tony walks out the door.

“Hm?”

“I thought you were going to wreck me this weekend,” Steve says, with one of his rare smug asshole smirks. “What day will that be?”

Tony pretends to think, as if he’s going to delay this any longer than his workload absolutely demands.

“Better make it Saturday,” he says. “You’ll want to be able to sit again come Monday,” His heart rate speeds up from just the logistical considerations. Tony’s going to be a mess of lust by the time Steve shows up in his workshop if he keeps carrying on like this. 

Steve treats Tony to a heated glance, and Tony vows to every god he knows that next time Steve is going to come _outside_ his pants.


	7. Chapter 7

Tony’d like to say he’s not surprised when Event Horizon knocks on his door at ten past three, just shy of punctuality. He’s a chessmaster of grand proportions — he hasn’t been murdered by his brother for control of the company, that takes real finesse — so surely he should be able to predict the actions of one violent gifted child.

Unfortunately, Tony hadn’t been on his A game during the whole pipeline shindig, and he wasn’t feeling particularly confident.

Event Horizon peeks her head in before entering, like she’s checking for hired thugs. She’s still got a shiner from the fight a few days ago. For the first time, Tony can see clearly that she’s barely more than a teenager, unsure of herself, gangly with youth. She’s picking nervously at the corner of her visitor sticker with short, bitten fingernails.

Tony raises an eyebrow at the sticker and skips the introductions. “You know you could have teleported here and skipped the front desk entirely, right?”

That takes Event Horizon aback. She’s not used to people bringing up her powers. Tony wonders how many people she’s told about being a mutant; if even her family knows yet.

“I didn’t think of that,” she says, eyebrows knitting.

“You’ll be spectacular once you come up with all the creative practical applications of teleportation and mini black holes,” Tony says, drawing her farther in. “I know ten particle physicists off the top of my head who are _dying_ for a chance to figure out what insane physics-y stuff you can do with that power set you have there.”

“Thank you?”

“Anyway, I’ve worked out the most effective way to solve your little domestic insurgency charges problem,” Tony says, moving on. He might have been skeptical about Event Horizon showing up to their Friday get-together, but he’d still done the legwork. “You join the Ultimates. Retroactively, those intermilitia squabbles and creative interactions with public infrastructure turn into — hm — opaque but important Ultimates business.” Tony draws his fingers across the air and makes a _ziiiiiiip_ sound. “All classified.”

Event Horizon flicker-steps closer, tense with wary interest. “You don’t put terrorists on superhero teams.”

“We’re all morally dubious dirtbags,” Tony says, kicking his feet up onto the desk. “A touch of terrorism can be waved away. Brucie killed eight hundred people and we still ask him over for alien-killing soirees. And lord knows Wanda and Pietro are their own entire situation.” Tony twinkles his fingers to illustrate the myriad of delightful ways the Ultimates are fucked up.

Event Horizon sits down abruptly in Tony’s uncomfortable chair for visitors. She considers silently for a long moment while she peels her visitor sticker all the way off and starts crushing it into a very, very tiny ball. Tony keeps himself from looking impatient by imagining how he’d make sure Steve didn’t need to sit in the anti-ergonomic monstrosity across the desk. Having Steve between his knees and _under_ the desk would be far superior.

“If you say yes, I make a phone call right now to arrange a wire transfer for a very large bail payment.”

“Okay. Then — yeah,” Event Horizon says. Confirmed: Tony is a fucking genius who solves all problems brilliantly. “Just — tell me why. Why are you giving me a second chance?”

Tony crosses his ankles and shrugs. “Your wiggly wobbly space-time continuum powers are interesting, and I like my test subjects conveniently located nearby. You’re a major scientific asset, darling. Plus you have a _great_ sob story. Now run along to payroll, I don’t deal with paperwork.”

* * *

As soon as Event Horizon leaves his office, she’s gone from Tony’s mind like he’s a toddler and she’s a cheerio hidden under a sippy cup. Object permanence, never heard of her. What Tony’s thinking about is where to hang his gymnastics equipment.

He’s not doing a good job at waiting for Saturday.

In the end, the armor gantry is perfect. Normally it supports huge hunks of metal, surrounded by a riot of electrical conduits and greasy tubing. Now it stands empty, save for a pair of gymnast’s rings hanging on long ropes. 

The futon he’d set up with its nest of blankets and pillows sits nearby, although in the intervening time it’s collected a pile of broken kiln parts, insulation bricks, and used crucibles. Tony wasn’t emotionally capable of sitting in it for a while, so it became a landing zone for junk produced by his on-again off-again glass materials research. Space in his workshop is at a premium; waste not, want not.

Tony clears off the futon, plucks a few bits of wire out of the throw blankets, and surveys his setup. It all checks out. There’s lube hidden in all the right places. All he needs is Steve.

Ideally, Tony would take Steve out to somewhere with Michelin stars, _plural_ , and feed him delicacies of the sea: caviar and crema on warm blini, pickled shallots and passionfruit-dressed oysters, scallops seared in duck fat sprinkled with toasted hazelnuts. However, while Tony _wants_ to treat Steve to the behind-the-scenes members-only tour of what it’s like to be with Tony Stark, he’s not sure he and Steve are quite there yet. There’s kinky sex to get Steve’s masochist fix, and then there’s treating Steve to dinner while Tony challenges Steve’s cabbage-and-potatoes palate. What Steve wants from Tony is pain, expertly delivered. Sure, Steve kisses like he’s going to make a home in Tony’s arms, but that’s because Steve is a hopeless virgin who doesn’t know any better. The only people the man has kissed are probably Jan and Gail Barnes. Of course he falls back on nice girlfriend makeout technique. There’s no way he knows what he’s doing to Tony. And besides, Steve is so deep in the closet Tony could practically use him as a shoe rack. Dinner dates are a definite _no_.

So, instead of coming back from dinner together, Steve smelling of the wine that Tony picked out for him, Steve is due to knock on the workshop door in t-minus five minutes, and Tony’s going to have to blow his mind without the pre-game party.

Steve arrives on time, carrying a small duffel.

“What’s that?” Tony asks. He didn’t expect Steve to come with _props_.

“Change of pants and underwear,” Steve says simply, and Tony bursts into laughter.

Steve chuckles too, and Tony laughs harder, because he and Captain America have a shared sex joke and his life is absurd.

“I have a better plan than your little BDSM go-bag,” Tony says as he sidles up to Steve, still smiling and amused. Once he’s in range, Tony laces his hands around the back of Steve’s neck and grins up at him. “We take your pants and your underwear off and we put them in a safe place until you’re all done for the night.”

“That’d work too,” Steve says.

“Let’s do my plan,” says Tony, crowding up against Steve so he can kiss him. Steve drops his duffel bag and puts both hands on Tony’s waist, stiff and steady like he’s a ballet dancer about to perform a tricky lift. Tony wants Steve to keep touching him all night almost as much as he wants to make him sob in pain.

_Almost._

First, Tony’s going to mark up Steve’s neck. He backs Steve up until his ass hits the edge of Tony’s messy workbench — Tony’s pretty sure there’s nothing caustic near the edge of it, but Steve has a change of pants anyway so what the hell — and bends his head to suck on the skin just below Steve’s jaw. It’s smooth and freshly shaven. Steve smells faintly of aftershave; he must have tidied himself up just for Tony. Tony wonders if Steve’s groomed his pubic hair too, if he’s nervous that Tony’s going to see his cock and fretted over it with a razor in hand, or if Tony’s going to get to play with Steve’s full bush. Either sounds good. Any way he gets to finally wrap his hand or his lips around Steve’s bare cock will be perfect.

Tony kisses gently up Steve’s throat, and the groan Steve lets out is practically musical. The grip on Tony’s waist goes from tentative to hungry. Tony switches to biting and sucking, drawing blood to the surface and leaving behind a bed of burst capillaries. The serum will heal that up quick enough for Steve to go outside tomorrow without looking like he’s been sexed half to death, but for now Tony’s aiming for _debauched._

He palms Steve through his pants while sucking a hickey at the base of his throat. Steve swears and his hand finds the back of Tony’s head, pressing him close and silently demanding more.

It’s only a few moments’ work to coax Steve to full hardness. Then Tony backs off a few steps.

“Get undressed. All the way. I want to see your dick,” Tony says crudely.

Steve blushes Crayola tickle-me-pink and covers his erection with one hand, almost coy. Then he ruins the effect by adjusting himself and indulging in what he probably thinks is a subtle fondle.

Tony raises an eyebrow — _I caught that, Mister Rogers_ — and Steve moves his hands to the hem of his shirt.

He’s seen it before, but the slow reveal of Steve’s chest is still a wonder: unreal muscles covered in smooth, pale skin that wears a welt beautifully. Tony takes the chance to adjust his own dick, watching Steve’s eyes flick below his belt.

“Are you gonna — “ Steve asks, as he drops his t-shirt on the floor.

“No,” Tony says. He’s going to get naked later, definitely, but for now he’s keeping the extra edge of power he gets from being clothed. Steve can physically overtake him whenever he wants, but Tony needs him vulnerable, ready to be broken down.

Steve sags a bit, and Tony relents. “I’ll take them off when I decide you’re ready.”

That brightens Steve right up, enough for him to undo his fly and shove his pants and underwear down far enough that his cock bounces free. “Hold on,” Tony says as Steve moves to take them the rest of the way off. Steve halts and looks up at him with wide eyes.

“Straighten up,” Tony says, and Steve does, back snapping to attention and dick flushed and hard in the vee of his open zipper. Steve’s hands flex at his sides and Tony knows he’s tempted to cover himself again. 

“I only get to see your dick for the first time once,” Tony says. “I’m savoring. Put your hands behind your back, and don’t even think about blocking my view.”

Wearing some clothes can make a person more naked than wearing none at all. Steve’s cock bobs, the head peeking red and wet out of his foreskin. Like everything on Steve, it’s well put-together. Big enough to satisfy plus a little extra all around. Someday Tony is going to tie Steve down and use him as his own personal dildo for _hours_. Steve’s manscaped only slightly — there’s a few patches of razor burn on his thighs, and his balls are trimmed — but he’s left most of it. Tony hopes Steve looked up a Cosmo article to learn _What Women Want From Your Body Hair_.

“Is it good?” Steve asks, looking down worriedly at his dick like he’s concerned he’s lost a ball and didn’t notice.

“You’ve got a very pretty cock, Captain,” Tony assures him. “I’m going to do so much to it.”

Steve twitches, almost forgetting to keep his hands behind him and jerking them back just in time.

“Still admiring, dear,” Tony says. “If I’d known this is what I was missing I would have gotten you out of your pants a month ago. I’ve been robbed of watching your cock as you come untouched just from pain, _twice_. You should be naked and hard under my desk at the office from nine to five so I can look at you all day.”

A muscle jumps in Steve’s thigh, followed by a shiver across his stomach.

“Lovely,” Tony says, wetting his lips. “You can take off the rest now.”

Once fully naked, Steve places his hands behind his back again without having to be told. He’s so damn good, Tony thinks. 

Tony comes around behind Steve, taking a moment to appreciate, and then slap, Steve’s ass. Steve lets out a small voiceless sound when Tony’s palm hits the meat of his asscheek. “Again?” Tony asks, hand poised to strike Steve again. Steve hadn’t liked Tony groping his tush before — seems like that’s still too gay for Steve’s heterosexual tendencies — but spanking is a different kind of sensation, and Tony wants to see if Steve’s up for pain in that area.

To Tony’s pleasure, Steve nods jerkily. Tony smacks him several times in quick succession, enjoying how it makes Steve rock up on the balls of his feet when he catches him right at the crease between ass and thigh.

Satisfied that Steve’s skin is starting to wake up, Tony slings and arm around Steve’s bare waist. He can feel the heat coming off Steve even through his shirt. “Do you know where we’re headed?” Tony whispers in Steve’s ear.

“You hung rings for me,” Steve says roughly.

Tony hums agreement into Steve’s hair. “I’m going to make you sore down to your bones, honeybun. I’ll have you do things that would wrench a normal human’s shoulders out of their sockets. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Steve grunts in response as they reach the mat under the gantry. Two plain birchwood rings hang just above head-height for Steve.

“Hop on up,” Tony says.

With a smooth jump, Steve mounts the rings. The ropes rattle for a moment, then still as Steve falls into a stable position. He balances on the heels of his hands, hips even with the rings and toes pointed toward the floor. So far, his muscles are barely straining. Also, only his legs are within easy reach for Tony.

“Do you know what the iron cross is?”

“Nazi insignia,” Steve replies instantly, furrowing his brow. “I don’t want anything to do with that, Tony.”

Tony laughs at himself — of course that’s what Steve’s instinctive reaction would be. “It’s also the name of a gymnastics move,” he says. Tony holds his arms out perpendicular to his body in a T shape to demonstrate how he wants Steve to hang. “We can call it an L-cross if you like.”

Steve lowers his body until his arms are stretched out straight and Tony has much better access to his good bits. The position makes Steve breathe out hard through his nose at the new effort. Tony watches his core clench as he works to maintain it.

“The standard for gymnasts is to hold this for at least two seconds,” Tony says, examining his nails. “I’ll be having you stay just like that for a lot longer, fair warning.”

There’s a rattan cane handily stashed nearby. Tony turns his back to fetch it, ears straining to hear how Steve’s holding up in his position. He’s not making much noise yet. Fixable problem.

Tony brandishes the cane to Steve, enjoying how just the sight of it paints yearning across Steve’s face.

Then he runs his index finger of his free hand from the root of Steve’s cock to the slick tip. Steve jerks at even that light touch, breath punching out of him. The rings swing in response, and Steve has to shut his eyes and strain for a moment to regain control.

Tony glides his finger around the slit of Steve’s cock, gathering the wetness that’s already leaking from him. Steve’s whole body shudders, and Tony wonders if Steve’s going to be able to do this. Worst case, Tony will let him fall and make him get up again until Steve can’t lift his arms over his head, and _then_ cane him. It’s not a bad thought — Tony files it away for later and wipes his fingertip off on the top of Steve’s thigh.

That makes Steve whine high in his throat. God, the filthy things Tony could do with nothing but the knowledge that Steve’s almost undone by his own precome smearing across his skin.

“This is too easy for you,” Tony says lightly. “You’re barely even struggling.”

“‘S harder than it looks,” Steve says through gritted teeth.

Tony knows that. He just wants an excuse to start hitting Steve and see what happens. 

Delicately, Tony lays his cane flat across the backs of Steve’s thighs. The touch makes Steve shake his head like a horse trying to dislodge a pesky fly he knows is about to bite. 

With a flick of his wrist, Tony gives Steve a little love-tap. Steve stays quiet. One of the things Tony likes about hurting Steve is that there’s no theatrics, no artificial moans or slasher flick screams. It takes work to get noise out of Steve’s proud throat, and Tony loves putting in the effort. Steve won’t cry because he thinks Tony will like watching it. He’ll cry when the pain overtakes him and not a moment before.

Tony flicks Steve again across the thighs, then moves up to the meat of his ass, then down again. Every few strokes he stops to rub the cane back and forth on a particular spot, telegraphing where the next hit will be. 

Steve’s breathing picks up, from the caning or the stress of holding the position, Tony’s not sure. Likely both. The only sounds are the movement of the mat under Tony’s feet, the sharp pats of rattan on skin, and Steve’s labored breath.

“How’re you holding up?” Tony asks, focusing on a particularly livid welt on Steve’s ass and hitting it precisely, three more times. Steve groans and flexes his feet.

“Answer me,” Tony demands. “I’m not a patient man.”

Steve raises his chin and looks down his nose at Tony. _Oh, this is going to be rich._

“You know what I do for a living, right?” Steve grunts. “I’ve done this hanging off a train in the pouring rain while ten Jerries shoot at me.”

“So you aren’t going to fall?” Tony asks, unable to keep a smile from creeping into his voice.

“Not planning on it.”

Tony’s going to see about that.

The cane whistles as Tony brings it down on Steve. Steve’s about to learn that Tony isn’t pussy footing around here. He’s perfectly happy to draw blood — delighted to, in fact. If he breaks Steve’s skin, the wooden cane can’t be cleaned sufficiently to use on another person. It’ll be just for them.

The sound of the rattan slicing through air gives Steve a chance to brace for impact, but he’s so focused on holding his arms out straight there’s not much he can do.

The breath catches in Steve’s throat when the stinging cane hits his skin. A deeper burn should follow in hot pursuit — and, yes, a half-second later — Steve jerks and swears at the spreading pain.

“That all you got?” Steve asks, even as he has to tip his head back and squeeze the rings to keep himself steady. Tony watches tendons flex in Steve’s wrists with hungry fascination. Heaven help him, he wants more, and by god, he’s going to take it. Instead of dignifying Steve’s question with a response — Tony hates stupid questions, and for some reason people ask him stupid question _all the time_ — Tony hits Steve again. Bruising is already starting to bloom from the first mean strike, and blood rises quickly under the second.

“Fuck,” Steve says. “Oh, fuck, Tony.”

The ropes suspending the rings tremble as Steve’s shoulders start threatening to fail. His muscles must be on fire with lactic acid, every fiber burning like red-hot wire laced through his skin. He could make it all stop by dropping a few feet onto the mat, but Tony knows he won’t, the spectacular, stubborn man.

Tony’s next lash breaks the skin. Pinpricks of blood well up in neat lines. Tony sighs through his nose, the sight of Steve bleeding under his hand warming him down to his gut more than a slug of cheap whiskey.

“God,” Steve gasps. “Please, please, you have no idea — ” Steve’s words break off into a strangled whine; Tony doubts he even knows what he’s begging for.

“Of course, _mon petit chou_ ,” Tony coos. “I’ll give you everything you need.”

Two more strikes have Steve’s teeth bared in effort, a growl coming from somewhere deep in his chest as he refuses to give in. His dick is still hard, even as a tremor starts to run through his body, strength failing him despite all that beautiful struggle. Tony cracks him across the ass again, determined to make him fail. The wound to Steve’s pride will be worse than any physical punishment Tony can mete out, and he wants fiercely to win.

Impossibly, magnificently, Steve holds on. He yells, sweats and curses; Tony’s cane comes away with a translucent smear of blood; and still Steve grips the rings. Tony needs him to break — Steve will get off on it like nobody’s business, beaten despite his best efforts, being made weak for someone else, for _Tony_. The cane isn’t enough. Tony could wait until time and gravity do the work for him and Steve’s muscles give out, but he wants pain — pain from _him_ — to be Steve’s downfall.

If hitting Steve one way doesn’t produce the desired effect, there are other avenues to success. Tony’s made a practice of inventive cruelty his entire sex life.

So Tony doesn’t give Steve any warning. He slaps him open-handed across the cock and balls, viciously hard against Steve’s most sensitive place. Steve convulses, shouts, and loses his balance. Tony watches Steve’s shoulders ratchet down a few critical inches, and then he’s past the tipping point: no more leverage. His body collapses all at once, going from gravity-defying and rigid to heavy and limp.

Steve’s feet were never more than a couple feet of the ground, but he still doesn’t quite manage to stick the dismount. He stumbles, hands slipping from the rings to catch himself as he goes down on all fours onto the soft mat. His head hangs down almost to the mat as he heaves for breath.

Tony kneels beside him, setting the cane aside for later.

“That sting a little, dearheart?” Tony asks.

“Shut up,” Steve says. He rests his elbows on the mat and presses his forehead into his forearms. “It hurts.”

Tony rubs firmly over the curve of Steve’s ass. “Feels like.”

Despite his protests about the pain, Steve leans into Tony’s hand, pressing his beaten ass into Tony’s palm. Tony can feel the tacky dots of drying blood where Steve’s fine skin is broken. When he drags his fingernails from Steve’s thigh to the crest of his hip, the sound Steve makes is high and pathetic. Tony is fiercely glad he can just _touch_ Steve like this, without fearing that he’s crossed a line. He gets to ruin Steve close up in full, tactile technicolor.

“Let me see your face,” Tony says, pushing Steve half-upright and turning him. “There you are.”

Steve is flushed, his hair sticking up in sweaty tufts, his expression soft, the flat killer’s scowl eroded away. Steve’s heartbreaking like this. Tony can see all the hopeless yearning in him, the lonely man underneath the violent coping mechanisms. Tony yearns to wrap him up in love and luxury until Steve can barely dream of wanting for anything. He could, if Steve’d let him. He would.

The thought makes the bottom drop out of Tony’s stomach, but he can distract himself by pretending it’s lust. He punts the inconvenient twist of emotion down the garbage chute and redirects his focus as best he can to his straining erection. Not fast enough — he’s already cupping Steve’s cheek and kissing his sweet, vulnerable mouth. Steve sighs happily into it, and Tony is _fucked_ , fucked seven ways to Sunday, but he can think about that after everyone has gotten off.

“I want you to get back on the rings,” Tony says.

“What?” Steve says fuzzily.

“Back on the rings,” Tony repeats. He strokes Steve’s hair out of his face. “In the splits this time, so I can do the insides of your thighs like I did your backside.”

“But — I can’t — I just — “

“For me,” Tony whispers. “You can for me, because afterwards I’m going to bend you over my workbench and fuck between your welted thighs until you scream.”

“Oh,” Steve breathes. Tony watches Steve’s tactician brain click through the outcomes and sees his pupils dilate as he comes to the same conclusion that Tony’s already reached: that’s going to be hot as anything. “God, I’m going to hell,” Steve says, and kisses Tony in a desperate slide of teeth.

Steve rises and stares at the rings like he’s sighting down a barrel. Standing, he looks like a Roman statue carved into buff marble, except for the angry marks from ass to thighs. He’s a classic sculpture tagged with graffiti, hot red painted across its artistic buttocks, spelling out: Tony was here. He places both hands on the rings, shoulder muscles bunching in preparation. 

Then he’s up, first rising into a pike, then the splits, spreading his legs open and baring himself.

Steve’s face as he holds the position is perfectly smooth. He’s locked his gaze in the middle distance, out above Tony’s head. This time the rings are an exercise in belief: the second Steve lets himself think he can’t do this, he’ll fall. His expression is reminiscent of olympic gymnasts trained that they must, above all, make it look easy, even as their muscles scream and their joints hyperextend.

Tony will strip that composure from him piece by piece.

But first, Steve deserves a reward for his efforts. Tony crouches slightly so his face is even with Steve’s poor, ruddy cock and kisses the side of it, then licks wetly from base to tip. He closes his eyes in satisfaction and slides his lips over the head, finally, _finally_ privileged to put his mouth on Steve’s cock. Steve cries aloud, serene focus slipping. Pleasure ruins him even faster than pain. His body swings a few inches back and forth as he loses control, but Tony rocks with him, not taking him any deeper, just tonging the underside of his cock at a leisurely pace.

Tony’s always appreciated the delicacy of this spot, in an odd, intellectual way that nonetheless connects fiercely with his libido. There aren’t very many places on a man where skin thins to membrane: the insides of the mouth, nose and eyelids, the entrance of his ass, and here against Tony’s tongue. This is a rarified touch, vulnerable to damage and disease, and Steve trusts him with it at last.

It would be easy to forget himself and suck Steve the rest of the way off just like this, but there’s more Tony would like to do, so he draws away.

“No,” Steve pants, desolate. “Don’t stop.”

“Ah-ah. The only two words I want to be hearing from you right now are _thank_ and _you,_ ” Tony says sharply. He picks his cane up off the mat. “We can practice gratitude right now.”

Tony whips the cane against Steve’s inner thigh, heavy with no warm-up. Steve loses control and drops six inches. He catches himself at the last second and struggles back into position, wrenching himself upward one arm at a time. His elbows are no longer straight, and his toes are falling out of pointe.

Tony waits, chin tipped up in imperious demand. 

“Thank you,” Steve says quickly, rushing the words into the gap between breaths held in effort.

He says it again after Tony hits him just as hard on the other thigh, a third time as Tony repeats the blow. This is a good game, forcing Steve to say thank you for hurting him. Tony knows what Steve sounds like sobbing and gasping his thanks out of pure, overwhelming gratitude and what it sounds like when he grits out the words just because Tony asked; he burns with desire for all of it.

“Good,” Tony says, and scrapes two fingernails down the doubled path of welts on Steve’s inner thigh. “You can fall whenever you like now,” Tony adds. “I won’t mind; I’ll just spread you out on the mat and finish my work there.”

Steve groans, and Tony can see fine tremors rolling through his muscles.

“Give in, Steve,” Tony says, and cracks Steve’s thigh. He strikes on every second word. “It’s tempting, isn’t it? Admit I’ve broken you and you can lie still while I beat these thighs bloody.”

Telling Steve he’s allowed to quit always goads him into stubbornly hanging on. It’ll make it more humiliating when he can’t anymore. Steve shakes his head, then throws it back, teeth bared and tears gathering in his lashes. Steve’s body, his main weapon, the seat of his pride, is about to fail before Tony. Tony makes his next strike vicious, the cane ripping audibly through the air before landing on Steve. This is too much force for a baseline human. With anyone else it would be a good way to incur permanent damage. For Steve it makes his dick twitch and his abdominal muscles clench.

Another whistling blow, and the ropes rattle as Steve’s muscles shake at the edge of collapse.

Again, and Steve yells wordlessly as he struggles not to sink out of alignment, shoulders creeping towards the angle where he’ll lose all his leverage.

Tony lands one final strike before Steve collapses.

Steve can’t get his feet under him in time, and he lands ass-first. He shouts and arches his back as the mat strikes the mess of welts Tony’d previously left. Steve rolls halfway onto his side in an untidy sprawl, dazed eyes tracking Tony as he heavesl for breath. He watches Tony swap his current cane for one that’s a touch thicker. 

At the sight of the sturdy length of rattan Tony plans to hit him with, Steve makes a ruined sound and spreads his legs, rolling his hips in entreaty. His breath hitches as the motion pushes his abused ass against the mat.

“Look at you, asking for it. You love the pain, Steve, and you can’t deny it any longer. It makes you come. It makes you wanton, baby. I want to _consume_ you when you’re like this. I want to torment you until there’s only two things in your gorgeous head: the pain, and _me._ ”

“C’mon,” Steve says in desperation, splitting his legs wider apart. “Do it, do it now, there isn’t anything to stop you.”

_Yes,_ Tony’s head sings. _Yes, let me, be mine for the taking._

Tony crouches and puts one firm hand on Steve’s knee, holding him in place: spread open, a spare handful of red lines standing out livid on his skin, hard cock leaving a small patch of wet that sheens his stomach.

“Shhhh, here you go,” Tony says, and hits Steve mid-thigh. He holds the cane against Steve’s skin for a moment, letting him feel the spiking ache it leaves. Then he lifts it, moves half a centimeter up Steve’s leg, and hits again.

Steve’s face relaxes as he leans into the pain, eyes rolled back and fingers clutching loosely at nothing. Each strike knocks a low grunt out of him as it rocks through his body. Methodically, Tony works his way up one thigh, then down the other as Steve rides high on agony.

When Tony’s finished, Steve’s densely streaked with pink, red and violet. The darkest marks are pricked with lacerations from edge to edge. They’ll sting fiercely when Tony comes between Steve’s thighs.

He needs Steve _now;_ needs to feel all of that on his cock as he uses Steve for pleasure. Tony throws the cane to the side and strips roughly out of his shirt and pants. Unclothed, he drags Steve upright by the hair to kiss him. 

Steve’s naked chest presses against Tony’s and he kisses back, stumbling forward as Tony pulls him toward his main workbench. The benchtop is high, suited for working seated on a tall stool. Tony bends Steve over it, unmindful of the engineering clutter that gets knocked aside. The only thing he cares about is the sleek bottle of lube stashed in the top drawer. He finds it mostly by touch and returns his full attention back to Steve.

The height of the workbench lifts Steve’s heels off the ground. Forced onto his toes, Steve holds his thighs apart so his beaten skin doesn’t touch. Tony puts a generous portion of lube on his fingers and then slides his hand between Steve’s legs. The cool lubricant makes Steve gasp voicelessly. Tony leans in close over Steve, spreading slippery lube back and forth across one thigh, then the other. His skin is ridged with swollen marks, hot under Tony’s fingers. 

Steve pants and shivers as he’s prepared. Tony coats the inside of Steve’s thighs with his lightest, most loving touch and still Steve shakes in pain. Tony kisses Steve’s shoulderblade as he slides his hand upwards to slick Steve from the base of his dick to the crease of his ass. Lastly Tony pulls a lube-wet hand over Steve’s cock, drawing forth a moan.

Tony slicks his cock by dragging it through the excess lube on the backs of Steve’s legs. He can feel every line he scored on Steve. Then Tony pins him down with one hand in the center of his back and squares his hips up with Steve’s thighs.

“Thighs together,” Tony says.

Steve cries out sharply as he squeezes his legs together for Tony to fuck and it presses on every welt and bruise on his inner thighs. 

Steve’s forehead thuds softly onto the benchtop when Tony’s cock pushes into the tight space he’s made between Steve’s legs. Tony rolls his hips in a long, steady stroke, skin thrilling at having Steve beneath him. Steve’s unarmored, shucked out of his self-control and denial, reduced to a bleeding heart cradled in Tony’s precise hands.

Tony slides in and out, eyelids fluttering shut at the sensation of Steve’s hot, slippery skin on his cock. 

As he speeds up, Steve’s thighs start to loosen, unable to keep them together. Tony slaps Steve’s flank as a reminder, and Steve tightens around him. But a few moments later Steve is slackening again.

“Sorry, don’t stop — I can do it,” Steve whispers hoarsely.

“Shhhh,” Tony says, stilling and leaning over Steve’s back. He slides his teeth over the thick muscle at the base of Steve’s neck, then kisses the spot wetly. “It’s not a problem. I’ll just bind your legs together so you have no choice but to be a warm place for me to fuck into. How’s that sound? All you have to do is lie there and hurt.”

“Yes,” Steve gasps.

Tony lashes Steve’s knees together with loops of nylon-web straps, leftover from rigging up prototypes for testing. He cinches the buckles tight; the added pressure makes Steve moan. Then he tucks himself back between Steve’s legs and grinds into the sweet squeeze of abraded skin on skin. All trussed up for Tony to take.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Tony rasps in satisfaction. Steve groans and grinds his hips forward.

Helplessness undoes Steve further — each thrust draws a stifled _oh_ from his lips, like he’s surprised anew at the sensation. “Do _not_ come before I get to blow you,” Tony orders sharply. Steve moans, full throated, broken in the middle as Tony snaps his hips again.

He’s so raw, usually perfect skin rough against Tony’s cock. Thin stripes of soft, unmarred flesh alternate with a barcode of hard, swollen welts. If Tony angles just right, he can rub his dick at an angle across the stinging peaks and valleys, using the texture of Steve’s thighs like he’s ribbed for Tony’s pleasure. 

Steve’s pelvis slams rhythmically into the edge of Tony’s workbench, rattling the tools stored above it. Every shift of Tony’s skin against Steve must scrape like hundred grit sandpaper, but Steve lies limp and pliant beneath him, energy all spent. The stiffness in his spine is gone; Steve’s resistance has been replaced by two hundred pounds of lax muscle and a hard, neglected dick.

Orgasm builds in Tony’s gut like a heat shimmer, racing ahead of him in glinting waves. Tony chases it, driving between Steve’s hot, slick thighs with rapid bucks of his hips. Steve’s entrusted Tony with his entire body, to do with as he pleases. Handing all his choices over to Tony leaves Steve blissed out, throat unstoppered, each breath coming on the heels of a needy whimper. Tony can take as much as he wants and it’ll only drive Steve higher.

Tony fists a hand in Steve’s hair and rolls his head to the side to see his face. His expression is overwhelmed, cheek smashed against the benchtop, eyes struggling to focus. Something he sees makes Steve choke out, “Oh god,” and clench around Tony. When Tony follows Steve’s line of sight he discovers that Steve is staring at his suit where it’s docked next to the wall. Steve’s tightening his hamstrings and rubbing back against Tony from the reminder of who’s fucking him.

That thought has Tony’s thighs trembling, orgasm quickly approaching. He arches his body over Steve’s to kiss and bite at his neck, which has Steve gasping on half-sobs.

“Stay still, stay, stay,” Tony whispers into Steve’s skin. “Let me use you. Think about how _Tony Stark_ is taking you, lovely. Your body is mine. You’re _mine._ ”

“Don’t stop,” is all Steve can rasp, over and over.

Tony’s next breath comes out a growl as he turns himself over to the rut of pleasure. The rough straps binding Steve’s thighs together scratch Tony’s skin when he presses deep, reminding him how well he’s made Steve weak. Against Tony’s stomach, Steve’s ass muscles clench in a quickening series of spasms, grinding his cock against the unforgiving edge of the workbench. His breath goes high and thready, and Tony knows he’s about to come.

“Absolutely not,” Tony orders, and wraps his free hand around Steve’s cock, squeezing hard to cut Steve off. “I told you, Captain.”

Steve thrashes, orgasm stymied by the vise-grip of Tony’s fingers. The restraints around his knees hold.

“You don’t want to miss out on coming in my mouth, dear. That would be a real shame.”

All Steve can do is sob.

The plunge of his dick in and out of Steve’s legs is pulling Tony inside-out, dragging pulses of warm bliss up from the well of his pelvis, down his cock, and out to curl across his skin. He’s losing coordination, hips yanking forward to draw forth more of that bright pleasure, and underneath him Steve surrenders himself to suffering, face wet with sweat and tears, gloriously wrecked.

The tip into orgasm is like jumping into a swimming pool. It engulfs him, waterline racing up his body, and then covers his head and he’s coming, breathless in it. Tony spills, long and hot between Steve’s bound thighs, muffling his shouts against Steve’s shoulder muscles. He jerks against Steve, the top of his shaft rubbing against the bottom of Steve’s lubed cock and balls as he empties himself. He can’t _think_ — there’s nothing in his head but Steve and bliss.

At last, Tony falls boneless over Steve, panting for air, scoured out by pleasure.

“So good,” Tony gasps against Steve. “So perfect for me. My perfect soldier. I’m keeping you, Captain.”

Steve’s breath is loud in his throat as he groans in agreement. Tony keeps murmuring endearments as he recovers, petting Steve’s sides in long strokes. Steve makes small helpless sounds as Tony praises him, still hard and desperate. His hips grind forward in fractional shifts, and he twitches and hisses when drips of Tony’s come flow over his abraded inner thighs.

On weak knees, Tony rises and releases the straps holding Steve’s legs together. Steve parts his thighs gingerly, flinching as his raw, sticky skin peels apart.

“Turn around,” Tony says, running his fingertips over Steve’s welted ass. “I’m going to blow you.”

Steve struggles upright and faces Tony, his cock straining desperately towards his navel. Some other day, Tony’s going to treat Steve to the five-course menu of the Stark Fellatio Special, but right now he needs all of Steve immediately.

Tony kneels and takes Steve into his mouth, pressing forward until Steve’s cock reaches the back of his tongue. Steve yells something inarticulate and one of his huge hands lands in Tony’s hair. Tony draws back then takes Steve farther in, spit pooling thick in his mouth, jaw stretching to keep his teeth clear. He’s messy, unrefined, working Steve without his usual slick choreography. Steve’s been so worked up for so long that he’s scant inches away from coming already anyway. 

Just because Tony’s more desperate than usual doesn’t mean he’s out of party tricks. Tony breathes deep, then opens his throat and swallows Steve down the rest of the way, until his goatee brushes Steve’s pubic hair. 

“Shit, fuck, _Tony,_ ” Steve whimpers. 

Apparently, Steve likes that.

Tony holds Steve in his throat for as long as he can before coming up and gasping for air. As soon as his lungs are filled, Tony takes Steve down again, scraping his fingernails down Steve’s inner thighs as he does. Steve cries out and bucks his hips, forcing himself deeper, but Tony doesn’t mind. He takes it in stride, applying all his considerable skill to getting Steve off. He holds Steve’s thighs firmly in place, kneading his thumbs into Steve’s sore skin, and swallows around his cock.

Steve’s sagging, barely supporting himself with one hand braced on the benchtop and the other heavy on Tony’s head. He trembles in a long, continuous shiver.

Tony wipes a palmful of lube and his own come off the inside of Steve’s leg and slicks it over the base of Steve’s dick. Then he turns his focus to licking and sucking at the head of Steve’s cock while he works the shaft in a steady rhythm with his hand.

It’s the end of Steve. Tony looks up through his lashes as orgasm crashes into Steve, knocking the last of the tension from the pinched places around his eyes and mouth, leaving him shocked into softness. Come coats Tony’s tongue in sticky rushes as Steve spends himself, and Tony gamely swallows it. Steve’s eyes widen in awe, and Tony wonders if anyone else has ever pulled this particular stunt for him before. He’ll let Steve finish in his mouth every time if it means Steve will keep making that expression.

Steve’s orgasm rolls through him for a long time; every time Tony thinks he’s done Steve shudders again, letting out a quiet _oh_ as pleasure makes his cock pulse anew. At last he tugs Tony away, done. His fingers slide from Tony’s hair to his cheek, and he passes one large thumb over Tony’s lower lip, sliding through leftover spit, come, and lube. Tony grins and bites the pad of it, then licks along the curve of Steve’s thumbnail. Steve sighs noisily, eyes sliding shut.

“Very nice,” Tony says. He drops a kiss on the unmarked top of Steve’s thigh. “Full marks.”

“I feel — “ Steve begins, then stops to catch his breath, “— like I’ve been run over by a train.”

“I’ll give you a minute then, hmm?” Tony says, and sways off, a bit wobbly himself, to find some ointment and a washcloth and a place to lie Steve down.

Tony’s plan was to set Steve up on the futon and minister to his wounds, but he’s briefly stymied by the fact that Steve’s not interested in walking any time soon, and definitely not halfway across the workshop. Carrying him isn’t Tony’s favorite task even when he’s wearing the armor, and he’s not suiting up just to grab Steve by the armpits and dump him on the couch.

Instead, Tony drags the futon over to Steve with a cacophonous grind of metal legs versus concrete floor.

It still takes some chiding to get Steve laid out horizontally on his stomach, but Tony does eventually get him there.

“Look at you, _fuck,_ ,” Tony says at the sight of Steve’s ass and thighs.

“Y’like that?” Steve asks, reaching back to gingerly explore the angry lines scored across his backside. Tony’s hopelessly transfixed. Steve prods at himself and grunts happily in pain. “Got me good, huh?”

“So good,” Tony groans, and can’t stop himself from trailing one finger in a curving path from the hollow of Steve’s spine, over his ass, down to the inside of his thigh. His come is still there, drying stickily along with the lube.

Steve twists around to look at Tony, smile spreading sweet and slow as molasses. He stares at Tony with soft eyes for a long moment, expression turning wistful. “Nobody’s ever acted like they _want_ me so much as you,” he says quietly. “It feels so real, during.”

Tony’s hand flies to his breast to still the ache that raises in his heart. He comes around to Steve’s front half and takes one of Steve’s broad hands.

It’s second nature to kiss Steve’s palm, then his thumbnail, then at last his knuckles, turning Steve’s hand as he goes. Tony’s lips come to rest over Steve’s third finger, where a signet ring or a wedding band would sit. 

“Does it not feel real now?” Tony asks, letting his breath puff over Steve’s skin.

Steve shuts his eyes, then twists his hand to cup Tony’s chin, fingers brushing gently against Tony’s goatee. Tony can’t help it — he presses into Steve’s touch, so blunt and warm and adoring he could bask in it forever. 

“Well, I can think in full sentences again, so I’m remembering what I’m good at,” Steve says wryly. “And it sure isn’t sex.”

Tony snorts, because that’s ridiculous. “Wrong on at least two counts, probably more, but I’ll start with the obvious. One, I am good enough at sex for two, maybe three people, so we’re not hurting in the skills department no matter what you bring to the table. Two, I don’t let just anyone come down my throat. That was the _good_ blowjob, baby, as a reward for how magnificently you gave me every single thing I wanted. I loved it.”

Steve flushes, so Tony kisses his mouth, trying to pour what he feels for Steve down his lips. Jan must have done a real number on Steve if he doubts Tony’s desire. Any idiot with the facts could deduce that Tony’s gone for Steve Rogers. Why else would Tony have been so torn apart since he first touched him? Steve has to know Tony’s tripped head, dick, and heart over heels; it’s obvious.

_Of course I love him_ , Tony thinks. _Surely he can see it._

His lips are still pressed to Steve’s when Tony realizes: _oh no._

“I always love it,” Tony says into Steve’s mouth. _I love you,_ Tony’s not saying, but it’s ringing so loud in his head he can barely hear his own words. _I didn’t mean to do this, fuck, Steve, I think it’s too late for me to pull out of this nosedive._

If Tony keeps kissing Steve, Steve never has to see whatever horror his face is doing right now.

There’s obvious, and then there’s pathetic.

Steve’s eyes are thankfully closed, so Tony guides him to lay his head down on a pillow. He’ll be safe behind Steve, out of sight while he takes care of the cuts and bruises he’s left. As he goes, Tony kisses Steve’s temple — _shit, shit, too tender_ — and strokes across Steve’s shoulders, telegraphing where he’ll be.

“Cool cloth incoming, don’t jump,” Tony says, and sets to work wiping down Steve’s filthy thighs. He pats gently at the places where Steve is abraded, and the damp towel picks up a patina of rusty re-wetted blood. Steve hisses and sighs in turns as Tony carefully cleans him up.

“I could do that myself,” Steve grumbles, without shifting from his position flat on his face.

“It’s my pleasure,” Tony says honestly. Setting Steve to rights is like re-organizing his workshop after a build. Necessary. Grounding. It means Steve will be where Tony expects him the next time he reaches out.

“Seems like a lot of trouble for you. I did fine before.”

“If you’d let me, I would have done this every time, you know,” Tony says, and switches from washcloth to antibiotic ointment; not because Steve needs it, necessarily, but it’s part of the ritual and it feels correct. There’s a hundred possible futures whirling through his head and all of Tony’s plans boil down to _if you touch him well enough, he won’t leave._

“Hm,” Steve grunts. “I kinda figured you’d want me to scram once we were done. You’re Tony Stark; you don’t have time for a beat up soldier who’ll heal anyway.”

“I have time for this,” Tony promises. “For you, I’ll make time.”

Too soon, Steve is clean and mended. The lighter marks streaking his ass are already less angry, inflammation fading away. Tony stalls, kneading the knots out of Steve’s sore shoulders, and then there’s nothing left to do.

He runs soft hands across Steve’s shoulders and down either side of his spine, then sits back on his heels and smiles at Steve. “There. All spic and span.”

When Tony moves to stand he’s stopped by Steve’s fingers wrapping around his wrist. There’s no restraint in the grip — Steve’s touch hovers light over Tony’s skin. He must be carefully attenuating his strength, to be this gentle. It makes his hand almost clumsy, a far cry from Steve’s familiar vise-like handshake.

“Stay?” Steve asks.

“Not exactly space for the both of us on there,” Tony says. He hates how that makes Steve’s face fall. 

He could possibly get Steve on his side without aggravating his sore spots, or Steve could lie on top of Tony, it’s not like Tony _needs_ to breathe, or —

Tony is an idiot. It’s a futon; the entire point of it is that it can fold out into a bed.

The futon creaks unhappily about adding the weight of another fully grown man on top of Steve’s dense bulk, but it can bring its comment up to human resources and take a spot in line behind every other complaint pending about Tony. Tony stretches out on his back and crosses his ankles neatly. Of his own accord, Steve shifts over — the futon groaning in protest — and throws one arm across Tony’s chest.

“There,” Steve mumbles. “I got you.”

* * *

It takes Tony two and a half days to accept that he really does need to tell the rest of the team that he’s offered Event Horizon a spot on the Ultimates. Teamwork, horrible invention. Even though it’s the most expedient solution to all of their problems, Tony’s a bit concerned that not everyone will see it that way. She did carve some chunks out of Steve with a magical ice cream scoop. There could be bad blood.

If Tony can get Steve to come along for the ride, he thinks the rest will follow. And with Steve, Tony has a secret weapon: they’re sleeping together, which means Steve likes him and will be biased in Tony’s favor. With some of Tony’s past paramours, that hadn’t been a given, but this is Steve. He doesn’t do cold and conniving. It’s not his nature.

Tony’s alarmed to find how much faith he has in that. Even if Tony’s a besotted idiot on the road to heartbreak, Steve is on his side in this.

That said, it can’t hurt to butter Steve up a bit. Tony knows an exclusive little dining room that’s run out of the chef’s home kitchen and only sporadically open. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t advertise its existence in any way — the restaurant elite know about it, and few others are welcome. The price tag is non-trivial, and the food is divine. 

Tony calls ahead, and gets the chef. “Lacy, darling, are you open on Thursday?”

“No,” she says. “Not even for you. Three nights a week. I promised Natalia we could have the place to ourselves every other day.”

“Natalia loves me,” Tony wheedles.

“No.”

“I’m bringing a _man_ ,” Tony says, because Lacy’s secretly a massive gossip and Tony’s determined to feed Steve her perfect steak. 

“Hmph,” Lacy replies, which means Tony’s welcome to keep haggling. 

By the end of the call, Tony’s promised Lacy six bottles of wine — “the good stuff, none of that expensive status symbol crap” — and the phone number of the man Tony buys his oysters from under the table. In return, a private dinner for two, catered specifically to expand Steve’s culinary horizons.

Tony wrangles Steve into something presentable before they leave: soft grey slacks, dark red shirt, and a neatly tailored leather jacket. He pushes his luck and offers Steve a watch from his personal collection, banking on the fact that while Steve may know a Rolex is expensive, he won’t have heard of A. Lange & Sohne. Tony loves to indulge himself — he can’t help it. He wants to see Steve with fifty thousand dollars on his wrist. Steve puts the watch on without fuss, then lifts it to his ear to hear it tick.

When they arrive, Lacy’s dining room is small and warmly lit. Eight people would be a crowd; Steve and Tony is cozy. 

Lacy greets them at the door. She gives Steve a critical once-over, then takes her payment of wine from Tony. She raises her eyebrows when she reads the labels, then whistles through her teeth. “You’re forgiven for dragging me into the kitchen on a Thursday,” she says.

“You said you wanted the good stuff,” Tony says, spreading his hands. “I don’t welch on a deal.”

Lacy vanishes into the kitchen, hollering for Natalia to look what her crazy rich friend brought them.

“I thought we were going to a restaurant,” Steve says.

“This is a restaurant,” Tony says. “Of a sort. Lacy is a chef, and this is where she makes people lovely food in exchange for money. Ergo, restaurant.”

The conversation with Steve stays light and unclassified through their first glass of wine and the crostini. Between bites Tony flirts outrageously with Steve, preening every time Steve’s watch face glints in the light.

“All right, Tony,” Steve says, when they’re halfway through the salad course. “What’d you drag me out here for?”

“Would I drag you anywhere?” Tony asks, dodging the question and letting it hang in the air, unspoken, that Steve would let Tony drag him wherever he liked, preferably by the hair.

Steve flushes and takes a large bite of his torn herb and caramelized fennel salad.

It’s not a crime to enjoy watching Steve eat good food, but it’s so decadent Tony feels like it should be. Every time a flavor is better than he expects, Steve makes a happy little noise of surprise. Tony’s sad he has to ruin this with business.

“Remember that I’m a genius and keep an open mind,” Tony says, willing Steve to be chill and forgiving. He can be remarkably even-keeled about some tactical decisions and explosively uncooperative with others, and Tony’s hoping for the former. Unflappable Steve, please and thank you. Not hares-off-and-punches-Hank-Pym Steve.

That makes Steve shift in his chair and bite his top lip. Playing his own words back in his head, it does sound slightly like Tony was propositioning Steve for a fun new kink.

“Nothing exciting,” Tony clarifies, and then rushes headlong into the breach. “Just that I added a potential member to the Ultimates, and her name is Event Horizon. I promise it solves one hundred percent of our problems to bring her on, and she’s never even assaulted any civilians, just some light ecoterrorism, which puts her above some people on the team.”

“Oh,” Steve says. He stops eating the salad he was enthusiastic about the moment before and instead uses his fork to aimlessly push an errant pistachio around his plate.

“You hate the idea, I get that,” Tony says, spinning like a TV anchor faced with dead air.

“I’m not against additions to the team,” Steve says, still chasing his garnish back and forth.

“You’re upset,” Tony points out. “That makes sense, she melon-balled your chest, and I should have been upfront about things but she showed at the meeting time and it went so smoothly — “

Steve huffs a loud sigh and Tony stops talking.

“I didn’t think this was a work dinner,” Steve says tightly. “That’s all.”

There was a fresh bend in Steve’s fork — now he’s taken it between his hands and is straightening it back out. The metal’s going to work-harden, Tony thinks. That’s not the thing he’s supposed to be focused on.

Lacy’s isn’t the kind of place Tony would take anyone else for a work dinner.

“Tell me one thing,” Steve says. “Is it a rule? To keep us from being Hank and Jan, you won’t go out with someone who comes to your workshop and gets hit? Or is it just me?”

All the easy warmth has drained out from between them, replaced by something thin and drawn. Steve’s expression is wavering between carefully blank and quietly sad,   
and that’s what snaps Tony back into gear. He can fix this. It’s so easy it’s laughable.

Tony leans in and locks eyes with Steve, holding his gaze with purpose. Steve dips his head, trying to shake Tony off, but Tony follows him until he stills, attention captured. He wets his lips and doesn’t look away.

“I realized a couple days ago that I love you,” Tony says softly. “Isn’t that funny?”

Steve’s breath stops.

“It’s almost embarrassing,” Tony continues, giving Steve a small smile. “Falling for someone, getting _emotional_ about things.”

“Huh,” Steve says, more a noisy exhale than an actual word. They’re close enough for Tony to see how the tiny muscles under Steve’s eyes move and the way his lashes curl higher on the left side. Tony’s transfixed, the two of them mutually paralyzed as Steve picks his way through what he’s going to say next.

“This is actually unbearably vulnerable, so if you could pony up with an equal amount of openness, I’d appreciate it.”

Steve blinks, held captive by the moment for a long beat. Then he breaks, kicks back in his chair, and laughs. “Oh my god, _Tony,_ ” he gasps.

“Say you’ll date me. If you don’t it’ll make my speech sound utterly pathetic in retrospect,” Tony demands.

“Sure, if you want,” Steve says. His grin is as bright as the peal of a bell.

Tony has no idea how dating Steve works. Maybe Steve will start sleeping in Tony’s bed, or Tony will fret endlessly over what to get him for Valentines day and Christmas, or at the start of each mission Tony will have an extra nip of whiskey on top of the rest so he can stop thinking _what if_. Or maybe, Tony thinks wryly, it’ll be like right now: deceptively casual restaurants where Tony knows the staff; Steve leaning back with one hand splayed over his stomach, still chuckling; odd little moments of peace in a world that wants to kill them.

Lacy brings them aged tri-tip steak, verdant with chimichurri sauce. It’s straightforward and decadent at the same time, lent its flavor by the quality of the ingredients and not the complexity of its preparation.

“This is what real steak is supposed to taste like,” Steve tells Lacy when she comes out with more wine. He points emphatically at this plate with the steak knife. “The food wasn’t half bad when I met the president, but the stuff they served wasn’t steak. _This_ is steak.”

Steve doesn’t know it, but he’s just endeared himself to Lacy forever. The woman is serious about meat — asking her to cook a tenderloin is practically a bannable offense at Lacy’s. Lacy likes people who understand that the value of her beef comes from the years of care before it hits the slaughterhouse, not how many fancy herbs the chef crusts onto it. “It’s about showing the spirit of the food,” Lacy said once, waving a spoon at Tony’s CFO after he requested filet mignon. “You don’t learn a single thing about meat by eating filet. Useless.”

He doesn’t look it unless Tony’s dressing him, but Steve has taste. He’s got a tin ear for art and haute couture, but an odd knack for putting his finger on which thing is real versus a glitzy fake.

And yet he’s picked Tony, glitz and all. Probably Tony’s tricked Steve using sex and fine dining. _Pulled a fast one on you, Stevie-boy. Now you’re stuck with me._ The alternative, that Steve’s seen what defines Tony and come back for more, is too enormous to contemplate. Tony watches Steve mop up the last juices on his plate with Lacy’s perfect, crusty bread, and his heart feels big.

* * *

“So,” Steve asks, once they’re back in Tony’s sleek town car, headed home, “How much does this watch cost?” 

Steve’s relaxed into the leather seat, knees akimbo, almost slouching. The privacy window is firmly closed; Tony’s sated by good food and still a bit lightheaded from emotional triumph.

_Damn, got caught,_ Tony thinks. He looks away and waves an equivocal hand. “Not as much as a private jet. More than a slice of pizza.”

“This is what it’s going to be like, huh?” Steve says, raising a wry eyebrow. “Tony Stark, but with even less restraint.”

A reflexive shiver pricks at the back of Tony’s neck. If Tony Stark isn’t what Steve wants after all — that’s resolvable. Tony can put on a different face for him, it’s not hard. It just means there wasn’t actually a real person inside of him for Steve to see, only layers and layers of desirable artifice.

“Is there someone else you’d like me to be?” Tony asks, adding a smirk to the end to make it a joke about roleplay, unless it isn’t a joke, in which case Tony’s got a bellyful of traitorous nerves. He should trust Steve to be genuine, to be better than the men and women who only wanted the mask. Tony doesn’t remember the last time it’s mattered so much that someone wants to fuck around with Tony the person, not the persona.

“Like a lady?” Steve asks, tilting his head. Trust him to pick up that there was a real edge under Tony’s question. “Sure would’ve gone a bit smoother. Might have tried to date you earlier.”

“No,” Tony says, deciding hell with it, he’s wading right in while he’s buzzed off a red Spanish blend and warm from Steve’s company all evening. “Don’t you wish I was someone easier? More straightforward. Less demanding.”

Steve’s lips thin when he’s thinking, like he’s trying to keep all the ideas in his head from falling out through his mouth. “That’d be weird,” he says slowly. “Were you easier for Na — for your exes?”

“Sometimes,” Tony admits.

That elicits a tight little nod. “Don’t do that for me,” Steve orders, surprising Tony. Usually Steve doesn’t bring out the leadership tone between them. He drops one big hand onto the top of Tony’s thigh, a touch higher than propriety would dictate, and gives Tony a reassuring shake.

“Okay, then I won’t. Bossy,” Tony says, the last knot in his chest unraveling. He pretends to think for a moment, pursing his lips and peering out the window of the town car. “That means you have to wear the watch, I’m afraid.”

“That’s how it is?”

“Mmhmm,” Tony confirms. He traces the watch face where it peeks out from Steve’s jacket sleeve. The supple leather band leads him naturally to the image of Steve’s bruised wrists bound above his head, fingers flexing in pain or pleasure. When Tony looks up into Steve’s face, his lips are parted, following Tony’s train of thought in parallel. Tony does a quick calculation of how much trouble he and Steve can plausibly get into in the backseat of a car, and then pitches his voice low. “That’s exactly how it is.”

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Expanded content notes (these contain spoilers):
> 
> **Consent:** Nobody has any sex they don’t want, but Steve and Tony are not responsible about negotiating consent. A recurring theme of the fic is how that behavior bites them in the ass. At the beginning Steve has zero knowledge of kink and Tony doesn’t tell him anything before they get into it. This ends up with Steve giving Tony a blowjob, then having a freak out about that being gay, then saying Tony manipulated him into doing it. In the end Steve tells Tony he did want it, but they get to have a serious think about how risky the way they were doing things was. Steve and Tony also have a scene with some light consent play where Tony gets triggered and Steve safewords them out.
> 
> **Self harm:** Steve gets into fights as self harming behavior, and it’s not clear how much he’s using kink as self harm in the first half of the fic.
> 
> **Tony’s rotten mental health:** Tony gets dangerously drunk and passively suicidal, and is generally not the picture of great mental health. When he’s triggered during the scene with Steve he has flashbacks and dissociates.
> 
> **Abuse:** Steve and Tony have a rough conversation about Hank abusing Jan, and how that relates to kink. Later, Tony’s trauma responses are related to how his relationship with Natasha ended.


End file.
